


Hungry (Like the Wolf)

by UnstableIntention (BeneficialAddiction)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 71,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/UnstableIntention
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Peter gets hurt saving Stiles’ life, the teen’s reaction kicks off long-dead instincts that he’d really rather not be feeling. Over the next few weeks they claw and twist at Peter’s mind, Stiles’ oblivious behavior sending him into a downward spiral of wicked courtship, that of a murderous, ex-alpha, zombie-wolf, until the young man can’t ignore it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with killing was always getting started.

It was never what anyone expected it to be, at least at first.

Get a few years of it under your belt and that changed, but when you were young and naïve and clean of it, it was never what you thought.

Take a knife for example. Depending on how you went about it, if you got lucky or not, it was either going to be a lot more easy or a lot more difficult than you’d planned for.

Get lucky, or get smart as the case might be, and you turned your hand, and the blade would slip between the ribs like nothing. Find the lungs or the heart, send blood pouring forth to splash over your hands all hot and sticky…

Easy.

When you didn’t get lucky, or if you were just plain stupid, that’s when things really got messy.

When it wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be.

Then all of a sudden you’re panicking, hacking and slashing away desperately in a blinding-hot fury, splattering and slicing all over the place…

Fearful, because you’d fucked up.

Peter could hardly remember those times anymore.

He’d always been one for the mental game himself, manipulation, wearing people down, but there had been plenty of times in his young adulthood, in his other life, when the long con hadn’t been feasible and death was the quicker and simpler answer. He’d acted as enforcer, first for his father’s pack and then later in his sister’s, and even though Talia had hated violence, had always gone for the more democratic solution, it hadn’t stopped him from being needed. He’d provided a service, one that he was good at, even after he’d found a mate and settled a bit inside his skin.

The fire, Sarah’s death, all those deaths, had sent him careening back to a time when he’d been young and in his prime, vicious, powerful, and aggressive. Tearing his way out of that coma, the death of his niece at his own hand, those things had twisted him, forced him back into that mindset of kill or be killed, and for a long time that was where he’d stayed. It worked really, because where Scott was unwilling to get his hands bloody and Derek was just incapable of doing anything the easy way, Peter was waiting in the shadows with a backup plan.

For all intents and purposes he’d found a place again - protect the pack - and that felt rather right, even if his main directive was and still remained himself. He wasn’t above the occasional disappearance when it meant saving his own skin or even just saving him an inconvenience, but he’d never minded being the muscle, if only because it gave him an outlet for his more violent tendencies. Often it came with the added bonus of convincing others to underestimate his intelligence, his charisma when he really laid it on thick. It never lasted of course, but the element of surprise was always nice.

Still, Derek’s little ragtag band - well, Scott’s now really - actually did get things right every once in a while, even though that was mostly due to the lovely Miss Martin and the incomparable Stiles Stilinski.

Kicking the body of this week’s monster into the hole he’d dug in the middle of the Preserve, Peter cursed and touched a hand gingerly to his side.

He never _had_ quite been able to get a full-bodied grip on that boy, and it was his fault that Peter’s fingers came away from his side bloody.

He wasn’t as stupid as all the others so he would never say it, but sometimes he really did wish the kid would leave the battles to the professionals.

And Peter, _he_ was a professional.

He should have known that knocking the idiot out of the way just a second too late would get him sliced. 

He’d thought he had time.

If Stiles’ tenuous control of his spark hadn’t wavered at the last second he might’ve.

As it was, he’d gotten three neat, parallel stripes across his belly for his trouble, curving up and around his side, ending just beneath his ribs. The tingling numbness that was spreading out from the wounds suggested that the yet-unidentified creature he was currently burying had had some kind of venom in its arsenal, and he imagined that he wouldn’t be healing for a while.

Snarling, Peter pitched the last scoop of earth in over top of the thing and spat on the grave, swinging the shovel up over his shoulder and heading back through the trees towards the new house at a bitter-paced march. After the disaster down in Mexico, his double-cross to cause Kate’s final death and Derek’s so called _evolution_ , his nephew had gotten some sort of burr in his tail that had him coming back to old territory, using money from the vault to tear down the old house and erect a new one in its place. Strange, since it was no longer his pack, since his betas had dropped off left and right, but the remnants that they _could_ scrape together seemed to enjoy the place. Scott was there on any given day with his new beta Liam, and Lydia, Kira, and Stiles were almost always waltzing in and out like they owned the place. Braeden and Malia had decided to leave, much to Peter’s delight, only to be replaced by the computer genius Danny Mehealani and the young deputy Kyle Parrish.

Seemed everyone in Beacon Hills was turning into something these days. Peter paused at the edge of the trees and considered the house that had loomed up large and imposing before him, whose windows were all lit with a warm, golden glow, spilling light out onto the grassy yard that had been cleared so many years before. This was how things made sense - objectively he knew that. He fit here, in the shadows looking up at the light with the taste of blood still in his mouth. He _liked_ it here. But time passed and fires banked down to ashes, and going in from the cold didn’t feel so wrong as it had before.

Strange.

Shrugging it off, hissing between sharp teeth when the movement tugged at the torn skin and muscle of his abdomen, he crossed the wide lawn and pitched his shovel into the toolshed at the back of the house with a cruel smirk and an immense feeling of satisfaction, dusting off his hands and whistling a jaunty tune as he took the steps and ducked inside through the French doors off the back of the patio.

No scramble of movement or barrage of questioning greeted him as he entered, and that was fine because that was how he remembered it. Kicking off his muddy boots, leaving them to filthy up Derek’s precious hard-wood floors, he padded in socked feet towards the room at the back of the house that Stiles had dubbed the War Room. Apt, in his opinion, if rather pompous - it had nothing on the office where Talia had always waited for him after he returned from a job. She had been a master of keeping her cool, maintaining her composure in the face of crisis, but she had nothing on her emotionless black hole of a son.

Derek barely flicked a glance in his direction when he entered, just continued to address Scott’s pack like it was still his, standing side by side with the True Alpha who still couldn’t fully accept what he was. The boy seemed incapable of taking his responsibility into his hands the way an alpha should, even after all these years, and _that_ was what disgusted Peter most about the whole thing. Being an alpha was something that was _earned_ ; you either fought and killed to take it or you trained and battled your whole life to inherit it. It should never just _come_ , should never just _happen_.

Goodness of character didn’t mean that Scott deserved to be an Alpha, and it certainly didn’t mean that he was prepared to be.

“So this is over then?” the puppy-eyed boy asked, and Peter barely bit back a snarl. He should be telling them, not asking. “Everything’s taken care of?”

And there it was, finally all eyes on him to have done the dirty work their dainty hands were too soft and white to be sullied with.

“You tell me,” he demanded smoothly, his eyes burning blue, and beside Scott Derek snarled but he ignored it. He was a beta now with no more technical right to rank than Peter had, and he found himself with a growing sense of irritation whenever it came to his so-called pack members. “I did my part; was the warehouse cleared?”

It had been a bloody mess when he’d left, hauling a rolled-up carpet over his shoulder.

“We took care of it,” Derek responded gruffly. “Did you get rid of the body?”

“Put it with the rest,” he shrugged, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wall to kick out his feet, crossing one ankle over the other, all nonchalance even though it hurt. “But at this rate we’re going to have to find a new burial ground.”

Derek rolled his eyes, brushed him off.

Peter was entirely serious.

Their little Nemeton beacon was actually becoming something of a problem, and if there was one thing Peter had never had a problem with before it was finding a place to stash a body.

“All right then, I guess we’re done,” Scott said awkwardly, getting to his feet. “Let’s go home; we’ve got school tomorrow.”

Peter watched silently as the teenagers began to file slowly out of the room, a sudden wave of weariness coming over him. He was rather exhausted - he hadn’t slept in three nights and the fight had taken a good deal of energy out of him, to say nothing of the blood loss. Now his body was fighting futilely to heal itself, and that too was taking its toll, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned back against the wall and the room cleared out.

He was debating the merits of staying over in one of the house’s many guest rooms - an option that had the benefit of irritating his nephew to back it up - when the smell of Doritos and Speedstick and Mountain Dew swamped his senses, that and the ever-present wisp of charcoal, a Spark coming into its craft.

Peter’s hand flashed out on instinct and caught Stiles tightly by the wrist, a low growl rumbling up from deep in his chest before he’d even opened his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice like gravel as his irises flared, but the boy just glared at him and grabbed the bottom of his Henley with his free hand, rucking it up around his ribs.

“You’re not healing,” he stated, just this side of a dumbfounded question, and Peter narrowed his eyes, using his grip on the boy to shove him roughly away. His heartbeat was pounding thunderously in Peter’s ears but there was a hot sort of electricity simmering low in his belly where Stile’s had grazed his flesh, and he was too close for the werewolf to think of anything but forcing him away.

He didn’t like being backed up against a wall.

“Yes I am,” he sneered, tugging his shirt back down to his belt as Stiles stumbled back, caught his balance.

He didn’t know what the boy’s game was but he certainly wasn’t going to turn up his belly and expose a weakness to him. Aware of it or not, he was perhaps the most dangerous person in this pack with the exception of Peter himself, and that wasn’t even factoring in his developing spark. He had a mind and a deviousness that Peter both admire and respected, and with respect came understanding. Acknowledgment that he could be someone dangerous to him.

A _threat_.

So it was unnerving that suddenly he had his hands on Peter, was standing in his space where he was used to being the pack pariah, avoided at all costs. It wasn’t so bad as it was at the beginning of course, when he’d first resurrected himself or when it had looked like he was siding with Kate against the pack, but he was still uncomfortable with any show of affection or concern, even if deep, deep down some small, insatiable part of his wolf _craved_ it.

But now Stiles was watching him with those huge, amber eyes, calculating, haunted, and yet somehow still innocent enough that they were just _begging_ to be ruined, and Peter was left wondering why he suddenly wanted to know if the boy’s hands would be hot or cold against his skin.

He’d thought about it before of course, more than once in fact.

It would certainly be a type of challenge, seeing if he could manipulate the young man into that position, and there were few things he loved more than a challenge. Stiles was smart, and he knew Peter like few others did, saw beyond the mask of charm and charisma that he could slip in and out of like a well-worn jacket.

Unfortunately, Peter suspected that there was something more to the desire than that, and that was the only thing that had kept him from just sinking in his teeth and taking a fat, juicy _bite_.

Just like that time in the parking garage where’d he offered Stiles the greatest thing he could, offered to take him, _make_ him, and there was something whispering along the back of his mind, something small and reptilian, driven by instinct that said there was more to come. Something greater. And Peter knew how to be patient. This sort of thing was what he lived for, and he lived it with relish.

In this instance though, he was running blind. For once he didn’t know the end-game, didn’t have a fully-formed goal set in his sights, instead just a pale, gangly boy wreaking havoc on his decisions.

Tonight had been a perfect example.

He shouldn’t have done what he did, wouldn’t have expected it from himself. He’d…

“You saved my life.”

Peter blinked, looked Stiles up and down.

The boy looked as confused as Peter felt.

“You… you’re _Peter_ , you shouldn’t have…”

“Then next time I won’t,” he cut in smoothly, easy as anything, pushing off the wall and sidestepping him to make his way towards the door. Pissing Derek off wasn’t worth sticking around. “Be less of an inconvenience to me.”

“Peter!” Stiles barked, and the wolf almost kept going, just to annoy the kid a little bit more, but then there was a hand on his elbow wrenching him around hard and the young man was staring at him with something like deadly determination in his eyes.

“Thank you.”

And hell, what was he supposed to do with that?

He didn’t know.

So instead he did what he did when he felt like he was playing against a stacked deck; he shrugged the kid off and he left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Let be know what you think - I *love* Peter but it's my first time writing him his own fic.

The next afternoon Peter came back from the drug store to find a flat cardboard box sitting on his welcome mat. He caught sight of it from the end of the hallway, as soon as he stepped out of the elevator, and it had momentarily frozen him in his tracks as his mind ran through the gamut of all the people and supernatural entities he had ever pissed off.

It was a long list, and there wasn’t a name on it that wouldn’t be above sending him a nice little explosive.

Shifting the paper sack in his arms, he took a few cautious steps towards the thing, scented the air.

Wait a minute.

Was that…

_Stiles_.

Bearing his teeth in growl, Peter stalked down the hallway towards his door, the tension bleeding out of his spine as he went. He didn’t understand how he hadn’t noticed the young man’s scent before; he couldn’t be that used to it, that comfortable with it, and he’d kept his address from his nephew deliberately so none of the brat pack had ever come anywhere near his building. His smell should have stuck out like a lightning strike, jarring and electric, tainting the air. Not that it was any big surprise that Stiles had been able to figure out where he lived.  
He’d given him enough hints over the years; it shouldn’t have been hard.

No, the surprise was that he’d dared set foot in the wolf’s lair at all.

Lots of interesting angles to take on that, he mused, but right now he wasn’t exactly interested in puzzling through any of them. He’d gone out to pick up some first aid supplies and had every intention of spending the rest of the afternoon in the plush comfort of his elegant, king sized four-poster, making a significant effort towards letting his body recuperate even if he couldn’t achieve any real sleep. He was currently deeply entrenched in one of his bouts of unexplained insomnia and it wasn’t contributing anything helpful to his healing process - the deep lacerations across his belly and over his side hadn’t even begun to close and were weeping sluggishly, blood and something clear that he suspected was what had numbed him the night before, only to fade away and leave him with a vicious burning sensation hours later.

Hence his little excursion for peroxide and cotton gauze.

Jingling through his keys, he nudged the box absently with the toe of his boot as he opened the door to his apartment, Beacon Hill’s own version of an expensive high rise that took up the entirety of the top floor. When the thing didn’t hiss or rattle he shrugged, crouching down to scoop it up and take it inside, depositing it on the countertop along with his bag. Working his fingers beneath the sealed edge of the cardboard, he tipped it sideways and sent its contents shuffling out onto the counter, catching them at the last minute when he realized what it was.

Homemade apple pie.

Well hell.

He’d been expecting a book, some dusty tome of Deaton’s full of magic and intentionally vague notes, or maybe a thick stack of loose leaf covered in Stiles’ own careful hand, research he’d put together for the pack that he wanted a second opinion on.

He hadn’t been ready for this.

Not an aluminum pan, still warm on the bottom, filled with flaky pastry perfectly browned, oozing at the edges with sticky filling that smelled like cinnamon and tart fruit. Peter’s stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that it had been a good twenty four hours since he’d eaten - he hated fighting on a full stomach - but as easy as it would be to just accept this thing at face value, Peter’s mind didn’t work like that, and he knew that Stiles’ didn’t either.

Tilting the pan precariously, he looked underneath for the string that came attached to the dessert, mostly for his own amusement but he wouldn’t put it beyond the boy to poison him with sweets either. Maybe not to death - he was oddly moral when it came to certain things - but to sickness or paralysis certainly. A pinch of cinnamon, a sprinkle of nutmeg, and oh yes, a healthy dash of good old mountain ash.

It was only the question bushwhacking away at his theory that kept him from tipping the whole thing into the trash on principle alone.

_Why_?

Stiles was more like Peter than he’d like to believe - they both played to an end game - so what purpose would injuring or sickening him serve? Less the masochist than the strategist, more’s the pity, there had to be a reason behind what this was.

Marcus Aurelias preached simplicity - ask what each thing served in and of itself.

So what did he know?

Peter knew that last night he had saved the kid’s life, though he still didn’t know precisely why. He knew that both of them were aware of that fact, and had acknowledged that the action was out of character for him. He knew that Stiles had later reacted strangely, stepping into his space in a move that was out of character for him, and had showed something almost like concern. More than that, he had thanked Peter for what he’d done, straight out and honest and _insistent_ , and he couldn’t remember the last time _that_ had happened.

So maybe it was as easy as that.

Just another unnecessary thank you from a kid who didn’t want to owe Peter anything.

Smart.

It was a sentiment that he could get behind, because if he’d truly felt like Stiles _did_ owe him something…

Well.

Let’s just say he’d have lorded that card over the boy’s head a good long while before finding the perfect moment to play it.

Tempting thought actually, but his wolf was salivating at this point, teeth sunk deep into Peter’s stomach, demanding to be fed. Taking the aluminum pan in his hands he squeezed gently until the pie broke, lifting out a large, sticky chunk and taking a messy bite. It was unfairly delicious, perfectly tender and flaky, sweet with a hint of spice, and he devoured the entire piece standing over the tin at the counter before he even thought to fetch a plate. Already sticky and in the privacy of his own home where he could do as he damn well pleased, he shrugged before picking up another hand-sized chunk and heading for the bathroom, snagging his bag of first aid on the way.

Peter had never had to really doctor himself up before.

Not this way anyway.

Oh, he’d set a few broken bones in his lifetime, a few dislocated joints, but his nursing skills were mostly limited to battle-dressage, temporary and only just sufficient.

Still, he knew enough to realize that just licking his fingers clean of sugary apple-filling probably wasn’t the wisest move, so he washed his hands carefully before tugging out of his shirt. Sucking a breath in between bared teeth with a hiss, his eyes flashed against the pain as his shirt stuck to the edges of the wet wounds, as the torn skin and muscle was pulled taught as he stretched his arms over head. The gashes were long and curving and still hadn’t begun to heal, and if they didn’t start in the next day or two he might need to put a little more effort into the process. For now however, he contented himself with cleaning the lacerations, debriding them with the bubbling, stinging peroxide before smearing on a thick layer of filmy antibacterial cream.

Covering his left side with gauze, he did a quick wrap-around with an ace bandage and slipped back into his shirt, turning a bit this way and that in front of the mirror. The bandage would prevent anything seeping through his shirt, but if it could be seen, bulky or bunched beneath his clothes, it would be just as much of a neon sign screaming _weakness_ as a blood stain would. All of his instincts were urging him to find a bolt hole, to settle in somewhere he couldn’t be found until he was back to full health. His apartment would have been the ideal place for that, but Stiles’ sudden intrusion had him feeling once again like his back was up against a wall, and he wondered if he wouldn’t rather just pay for a hotel room for a few days.

Peter bristled, bared sharpened teeth at his reflection.

To hell with that; Stiles was the last person he’d ever turn tail and slink away from.

He’d never hear the bloody end of it.

Besides, there wasn’t anything about that doe-eyed, hyperactive teen he wasn’t prepared to handle.

Shucking his jeans, Peter swung through the kitchen in his boxers to grab the rest of the pie before heading to his bedroom, collapsing back into a heap of pillows and flicking on the flat screen hanging from the opposite wall. Typically more fastidious, finicky about getting crumbs on the sheets, he balanced the tin on his chest and spent the rest of a lazy afternoon browsing the History channels, eating tender, flavorful bites of pie from his fingers, and doing his best to let his natural healing abilities take over.

**XXX**

It was past eleven when he woke up the next morning.

He didn’t remember drifting off, didn’t come awake dreaming, and that wasn’t Peter’s typical night even on a good week.

Attempting to stretch the kinks out of his muscles, he grumbled with irritation as the pain in his side flared to life once again. Still not healed up then.

Delightful.

Curling slowly upright, he touched his hand to his side, carefully, delicately. Beneath his t-shirt his bandages were sticking, tugging at his skin and it was an inconvenience that he wasn’t accustomed to. He might’ve thought he’d feel better with sleep but instead he felt logy and stiff, his mouth dry and his belly heavy and tight. The briefest of thoughts flitted through his mind that Stiles might really have done something to him but it passed as soon as it had come; he knew physical pain, poisoning, and this was not that.

No, there was something more to it, something psychological, instinctual, lifting the hair on the back of his neck.

It was his wolf that was unsettled, his inner animal, and it had him itching for the shadows of the Preserve, the quiet and loam of the wood where he could shift and run, stalk and prowl and hunt. The full moon was still more than a week away but his skin already felt too tight. He despised this part of his nature, the ache of wanting what he didn’t have, what he’d gotten the most perfect, delicious taste of before it had been carved out of him by his nephew’s claws.

He wanted that again.

Strolling towards the kitchen, Peter set the coffee pot to percolating, breathed in the smell of the rich earthy grinds that he had imported from Columbia as he contemplated his recent decisions. Entrenched within a pack once more, he’d cut himself out a place that he was relatively comfortable with, a niche that worked for now while still feeding some of his more baser urges. At the same time, he often still found himself becoming unnecessarily irritable, quick to snarl and show his teeth, anxious for nights of blood and darkness and the heart pounding chase. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he was waiting for, not with Scott so idle and close to hand, so unassuming as he turned an unprotected back to Peter’s teeth. He’d been a mistake from the very beginning, too trusting and too unwilling to fight; taking his Alpha-hood from him would feel like nothing so much as correcting that error.

But killing Scott would come with consequences, a few too many of them to be convenient. Peter wasn’t concerned with his nephew, or Scott’s lone beta Liam, but Lydia and her Molotov cocktails could be a problem.

And Stiles.

Stiles was the real flaw in that plan.

He’d offered the boy his Bite once - now a Spark, he wouldn’t offer it again, _couldn’t_ offer it again, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t offer a lot more to have him at his side. Stiles was strategic, conniving, devious, and with him at his right hand Peter could only imagine the empire they could build together.

He was also fiercely loyal, a trait which Peter might have appreciated if it weren’t so poorly placed.

But Scott had gotten to the boy first and there was nothing that Peter could do about that.

No, that solution was out of the running, and he’d mostly accepted that, though he was still tempted from time to time. Like last night for example. The young alpha had an infuriating way about him, and Peter suspected that it was going to get him killed one day, whether it was by his hand or someone else’s.

Taking down a mug from the cupboard as the pot finished percolating, he poured himself a steaming mug of coffee and took a bracing sip. Nothing to worry about really - he had half a dozen other plans in the works, even more feelers out, threads crisscrossing the state and beyond, a tangled web of cat’s cradle with opportunities at every end.

All he really had to do was wait.

And Peter was good at waiting. 

Six years in a coma of paralysis tended to teach a man patience.

Wandering across the kitchen, he opened the front door with the intention of fetching the newspaper that got dropped on the mat each morning and was greeted once again by the warm, electric, _frenetic_ scent of Stiles, backing away from the door with a snarl on his face.

He must have been in quite the state of slumber if he hadn’t heard the boy knock… unless he’d been too much of a coward to do any more than ditch his delivery and run.

Growling low in his chest, Peter crouched down and swiped up the cardboard box sitting on top of his paper, cursing when he tugged at the wounds across his belly.

Dammit, he couldn’t even move without…

Accustomed to his own brand of cold calculation, the somewhat irrational anger tickling at his insides was a heat that he didn’t care for and that was making him all the more aggressive for it being there. His teeth on edge, he took another burning gulp of coffee before tossing the paper onto the table, tearing open the box with a claw and turning it over roughly onto the counter top. It was a loaf of bread this time, dense and browned, smelling of corn and bacon and sharp cheddar, and Peter immediately wanted to toast up a heaping plate of it, slathered in butter and topped with a fried egg, washed down with the rest of his pot of coffee.

It was his body craving salt and fat, like fighting off the remnants of a hangover in its attempt to put itself back to rights, but he knew better to indulge it. He needed protein not carbs, a raw, bloody kill, and there was still something uncomfortable about the whole situation. A part of him didn’t care for Stiles sneaking by to leave him baked goods, like the price of his life could be solved by a couple of treats. If the kid really wanted to pay him back for his trouble, Peter could think of more than one way he’d prefer to receive his compensation.

Still, he’d missed breakfast and a couple of slices wouldn’t kill him.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t a revelation that he came to consciously - it was actually sleep that brought understanding, strangely enough. Peter didn’t dream unless it was nightmares, never really remembered what brought him upright in the dark, covered in sweat with his heart pounding in his chest and a snarl caught between clenched fangs. Coming awake quietly, _calmly_ , with the late afternoon sun spilling like water across the bed, was far more unsettling.

Unsettled though was far too mild a word for the current state of his inner animal. He’d gone to sleep the night before with something scratching at the back of his neck, some instinct irritated and on high alert, though at the time he hadn’t know what.

Now, now it came to him as a full and terrifying understanding, what was skulking around just beyond the shadows, what was making his wolf pace and snarl. It had always been there of course, long dead knowledge that he never should have recognized, a simple comprehension of what was happening as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to know.

He was an injured pack member being fed, and he didn’t like it.

He would have fought it if he’d realized.

Wouldn’t have munched his way through half of the loaf of bread Stiles had left on his doorstep, blissfully unaware that he was playing in to the whole thing. Like the pie that had been dropped off before it, it had been delicious and satisfying in a way he hadn’t expected, but had ended up sitting like lead in his stomach.

Good, but heavy.

Like a Spark was forcing some emotion on him without his consent, feelings that tasted of tart green apples and sharp cheddar.

Worse still came that small part of him whispering nasty things, suggestive of thoughts that someone like him would never have. Thoughts, that said if the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t be so on edge, wouldn’t feel so displaced from how things _should_ be…

Peter’s phone pinged from the nightstand and he practically leapt for it, hoping for a convenient distraction, but the message blinking from the screen afforded him no such luck and instead had his fangs prickling at his gums, his hand clamping down on the torn muscles below his ribs as hot pain sliced across his abdomen.

Nephew dearest was calling a pack meeting.

Lovely.

Rolling out of bed, Peter tested his range of movement tentatively, the carving marks along his side only just beginning to itch with healing and still viciously painful if he turned the wrong way. Tugging up the hem of his t-shirt, he peeled down his bandages, grimacing at the ragged, inflamed cuts striping through his skin. He would need to dress it again before he headed for the loft. Clenching his jaw, he shed his clothes on the way to the bathroom, too irritable for his usual fastidious nature to take point. The hot water wasn’t as soothing as he’d hoped it would be, nor was the cold when he tried that instead. Angry, hackles raised, he wrenched the water off completely and toweled dry, cleaning and wrapping his wounds again as carefully as he had the first time to hide them from the pack.

_Pack_.

Peter nearly spat the word out at his reflection, his eyes glowing a pale, cold blue.

He could say it as much as he liked but that didn’t make it real.

All technicalities taken into consideration, he _was_ a part of the pack. He just didn’t feel it most of the time. He existed on the fringes, did the dirty work and walked in the shadows when things called for experience and ruthless cunning. He never occupied the center of the puppy pile, didn’t enjoy anything beyond the protection of the _name_ of pack, and that was generally how he liked it. He could say he was a Hale wolf, maybe even a McCall wolf if circumstances demanded it, but that was all. His pack members didn’t care about him and that was more than enough of an excuse not to care about them in return.

The tactile interaction that was so natural to their species was never extended his way, nor any of those pesky nurturing instincts that came with illness or injury, and he normally felt no compulsion to extend them himself.

_That_ was right, _that_ was what he was comfortable with. How things _should_ be.

No matter how much being hurt - hurt badly too, what with his healing all but non-existent and the wounds still weeping with whatever clear fluid had coated his assailant’s claws - made him want.

_Crave_.

And still that whisper, that wicked devil of a thought sitting on his shoulder that said _he_ should be the one taking care.

The one providing.

Peter snapped his teeth at the mirror before running some product through his hair, setting off in search of his boots and his good jacket.

He’d damn well “provided” enough by saving that teenager’s sorry ass in the first place, and what a mistake that had been. True he was scoring some baked goods for his trouble, but the quaint little brain-bender that came along with it was hardly worth the flour.

Besides, the kid wasn’t _his_ , so what did he care?

Oh he wasn’t afraid to admit that a part of him had wanted Stiles. He had. Wanted him for his own pack, wanted him for his mind, his intelligence and his quick wit. His ability to go toe to toe with Peter whether through reckless bravery or cunning that could potentially match his own was admirable, _desirable_. Together what they could do would be limited only by the breadth of their imaginations, and the boy had already proven himself a deft hand in that regard, as good with his mountain ash circles and his magic as he was at the Chess and Go boards.

Still, he didn’t like the way his wolf had sat up and taken notice, didn’t like the way it was scenting the air while licking its chops.

He had plans, goals, a life of luxury and leisure to live out, and none of them included the scrawny, loud-mouthed human of the pack who didn’t even have enough control over  
his Spark to save his own hide.

But these were problems that could be solved easily enough.

If he wanted to be crass and blunt about it he could always just throw the kid against the wall and threaten him a little - he imagined it would go over better for him than it did for Derek.

Unlike his nephew, Peter still commanded fear.

Slipping into a pair of dark sunglasses, he felt his lips curve in the wicked smirk he’d practically patented, the one that oozed charisma and seduction and only a little bit of _bad_. In his buckled leather boots and his heavy flak jacket, with his hair finger-combed and his goatee trimmed sharp and clean, he felt all of the deadly charmer, and it put the cockiness his injury had dampened back in his step. He didn’t care to examine why that pleased him too closely this afternoon - it felt good and that was enough for him.

Taking the elevator to the basement garage of his building, Peter walked round to his motorcycle, a Harley Sportster, custom made, slim and sleek in a deep, charcoal grey. He’s considered both black and bloody red when he’d purchased the bike but had felt them too cliché, and besides the grey was just a touch more mysterious, a touch more approachable when Peter felt like… _mingling_ with the common folk. He loved the way the engine rumbled beneath him as he straddled the bike, the way it could weave so smoothly in and out of traffic, the stinging bite of the wind on his face when he got it onto the highway and broke ninety. He abhorred the confinement of cars, being strapped down by a seatbelt.

On his bike he felt free.

It was fast and sleek and deadly, with a roar that rivalled his own, and he _loved_ it.

Starting the bike with a fierce, rumbling growl, he swung his leg over the engine and headed for the Hale House.

**XXX**

Peter was the first to answer his nephew’s summons, the house quiet but for the younger Hale who stalked around the living room with a dark glower on his face. Typically later than was really acceptable, he found his irritation flaring when he parked his bike on the lawn beneath the young oak that had been planted to the side of the drive, Derek’s Camaro the only other vehicle there. He would think the flashy car pretentious if he didn’t know that it had been Laura’s, hadn’t been able to recognize her scent still clinging to the small spaces of the interior, the stitching of the leather seats.

His teeth already on edge, seeing it again did nothing for his attitude, reminding him of one of the very few things he regretted the necessity of in his life. But, since he intended to have a serious conversation with a certain Spark in the near future, he tamped it down, taking his ire out on Derek’s coffee table by dropping down onto the fancy leather couch and kicking his heels up onto the edge of the glass. His nephew had snarled and flashed his eyes but Peter had just smirked, settled lower into a slouch and closing his eyes, folding his hands together over his stomach.

He could do this.

He could handle this calmly, with all the cold calculation that was his wont, even though inside he was practically panicking as unwelcome emotions came bubbling up inside of him in an uncontrollable wave, emotions that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like a lifetime.

Even though everything in him wanted to get gone.

If Peter was anything he was a survivor, and instinct, experience was telling him to get away from this. Stop it before it started, get things back to the way they were supposed to be, the way he liked them.

Huffing a long sigh, he felt a smug little smile curve over his mouth as he sank into the plush luxury of the couch.

He wasn’t going to _run_ from Stiles. 

He could handle that sarcastic little…

_Shit_.

His scent coming through the door was like static electricity tripping down Peter’s spine, an intriguing tingle finished by a harsh zap that suggested the potential for worse, a warning. Corn chips and Adderall and Spark smoke, the underlying smells of apple and cranberry and orange, cinnamon and spice, sharpened by the hard edge of alcohol.

It was the way Stiles smelled when he was anxious - cider and Christmas punch.

The way he smelled when he was nervous, when he was _worried_.

It flooded through his veins like ice water and made his muscles tense up, the tips of his claws pricking at the backs of his hands before he reeled in the reaction. The kid tossed off some obnoxiously loud remark in what he imagined was Derek’s direction - the younger wolf had disappeared into the kitchen after five minutes of glaring and muttered insults failed to elicit a rise out of Peter. For the briefest of moments he considered leaving, or at the very least shifting forward to sit upright and ready in place - he neither needed nor _wanted_ Stiles’ concern - but he bit the instinct back, forced himself to relax into his slouch.

It hardly seemed appropriate that he was the one having all these ridiculous, _stupid_ emotions force fed down his throat - of all the people in the world, he was the last one that should work on.

Peter huffed, rolled his hips to find a more comfortable position for his ass against the edge of the couch.

This was Stiles’ fault; it was only fair that he be the one to deal with the mess.

He could hear the young man’s footsteps coming closer, felt his presence coming to his side, the hair along his forearms standing up as his scent sharpened and intensified, a heartbeat jumping just a little, the smallest bit faster than it should be.

Not fast enough that he couldn’t ignore it though.

“Peter.”

Oh for God’s _sake_.

Internally rolling his eyes, Peter dropped his boots from the coffee table, planted them both firmly on the hardwood floor so that it looked like he was just responding to Stiles’ request to move his feet, so that he could pass him to the other end of the couch. For just a minute he thought that was going to be enough, that that would work as Stiles stepped around him between his open knees and the coffee table, but then he was stopping, not crossing over him but instead standing directly in front of him, over him.

Opening steel blue eyes he found the boy staring down at him with a dark, wary gaze of his own, pale fingers toying anxiously with the edges of another small cardboard box. He could smell toasted nuts and coarse sugar, knew that it was full of Stiles’ pistachio crunch cookies. Of all the things the young man had brought over the years to feed the pack those were Peter’s favorites, the only thing he actively enjoyed, stealing a handful before the rest of the young wolves could devour them like… well, like wolves.

“Here.”

Blinking, Peter found the box being thrust towards him, the rich, sweet smell making his mouth water and his eyes narrow, all his issues with this sudden development barreling back at him like a damned cannon ball.

Cocking an eyebrow, he his let his gaze skim smoothly between the box and Stiles’ face, derogatory with the unspoken question between them. Stiles shifted on his feet, biting his lower lip before squaring his shoulders and frowning.

“Look, would you just take ‘em?” he frowned, thrusting the box forward again. “I know you like…”

“You have to stop this,” he interrupted suddenly, and his voice was more grave to his own ears than it had ever been. “Understand? _Stop. This_.”

“Then show me you’re better,” Stiles demanded, all heated bravado, but his amber eyes flashed with something in a way that said he was just as surprised by the outburst as Peter was. “ _Show me_.”

But of course Peter couldn’t do that.

Because he wasn’t better.

Wasn’t healing.

And showing that off would hardly help his cause.

Abruptly thrown off his game, unaccustomed to concern being directed towards his person, Peter fought not to squirm. _He_ didn’t squirm, not for _any_ reason. Instead he found himself backpedaling hard, and unfortunately that meant that his mouth was suddenly half a step ahead of his brain, digging him just a little further into the rut that was already proving to be a damned pain in his ass.

“Why Stiles,” he heard himself purr silkily, “If you wanted me to take my shirt off, all you had to do was ask. I’d be happy to show you mine… if you show me yours.”

He almost bit his tongue in an attempt to call the words back, furious with himself for once again playing into his own problem, but despite the anger burning up hot in his belly, Peter felt his gaze sliding like water down the Stiles’ frame, took in his form as it hovered over his own, standing more deeply between his parted knees than the young man probably realized. He pulled his focus back up to Stiles’ face just in time to see his amber eyes widen, hear his heartbeat jerk, then start tripping away at a thunderous pace. His wolf lunged hard in his chest, a dog at the end of its chain as Stiles’ pink tongue flicked out over his lower lip, unconsciously as though from thirst, his gaze taking its own trip down Peter’s body, over his chest and lower before he swallowed hard and straightened up in one fast, jerky motion.

“In your dreams Creeperwolf,” he bit out, but the comeback was still far less acidic than he’d braced for, Stiles’ voice thick and rough with gravel, like he’d been choked, and  
wasn’t that a pretty image?

Interest peaked by the boy’s unexpected reaction, Peter none the less shoved it violently away, his eyes lighting up within internal conflict as his better sense warred with the sudden hunger simmering in his belly. He felt out of his element here, his balance off kilter, and it was both an intriguing and infuriating sensation. Upper lip curling in a sneer, a low snarl rumbled up from deep in his chest as he bared his teeth at the young man who still stood over him with his hands fisted at his sides, determined not to back down.

Curling himself upright, clenching his jaw against the pain of crunching muscles in his abdomen, Peter felt his claws come unsheathed as his control slipped, as he gathered his breath to repeat his earlier command and drive his point home with pain if he had to, but before he could lever himself up off the couch, before a threat could pass his lips, a throat cleared and both of them jumped, turning to glare heatedly at the pack that was suddenly hovering in the open doorway leading to the front hall.

“Stiles?” Scott queried, hesitant enough to turn Peter’s stomach. “Everything ok?”

For three hard beats of silence Stiles held Peter’s gaze, cold and heavy before taking a step back, half-turning to his friend. “Fine,” he said flatly, and then Peter was scoffing and shoving himself up from the couch, the space so tight that their chests brushed and sent Stiles flailing back, the coffee table catching him at the knees and almost sending him to the ground.

Jerking the box from the boy’s hands roughly, Peter bared his teeth and snarled, low and deadly as he shook it in his face.

“Stop this,” he growled quietly.

Stiles flinched minutely as Peter’s fangs came close to his neck, adrenaline making his scent spike with warmth and spice and it hit the wolf hard. Stepping back, he slung his jacket over his shoulder and sent one more hot glare in the young man’s direction before shoving his way through the pack and stalking out of the house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed on this -story and any others I've written. Keep it up, I love it soooooooo much! I love writing Peter too - I hope you guys love him just as much!!

Peter didn’t sleep that night and he was almost glad of it.

It had nothing to do with his earlier encounter with the young Spark, or the subsequent inundation of angry and demanding text messages from his nephew and Alpha that he had so far successfully ignored; he was just… back to normal.

The night was his time, the darkness his solace. Sleep was just wasted hours, wiled away in nothingness, his body still and his mind blank, so much like being comatose that it made him want to feel physically sick sometimes. It was easier to roam, to hunt in whatever way he could, and so he returned to his apartment until dusk fell, steadfastly ignoring the box he’d tossed angrily onto the kitchen counter. When the half-moon was fully risen, cold silver against the deep, rich blue of the sky he locked up and got back on his bike, let the engine rumble and purr beneath him as he left Beacon Hills behind.

An hour’s passing minutes took him to the nearest big city, if you could call it that, the nearest bar worthy of his time. 

It wasn’t sophistication he sought tonight, not delicate lighting and silk table covers or extensive lists of wines served in crystal glasses. Tonight he needed something harder, harsher, _coarser_ \- a place where he could prowl the darkness of the dancefloor, feel the wild predator in him only just breaking though as he shrugged off his iron-clad control. Where he could let his eyes flare or trail the tips of his claws down the ribcage of some girl too high on heroin or coke to notice or to care.

He knew the hunger that was simmering in his belly, had felt it before - _many_ times since he’d come back alive again - but there was an edge to it now that was different, new, and the sharpness kept him on high alert like the bite of a blade against his skin.

Parking his bike in the rear lot of the club; a nondescript, brick building without a name, windowless and halfway underground, Peter flicked the collar of his jacket back into place, plastered on a smarmy grin, and strutted right past the bouncer and the line of complaining patrons waiting at the door. 

Stepping into the darkness felt like slipping into a well-worn mask; all cool, comfortable shadows heavy across his shoulders and the back of his neck. Cloaked with it Peter made his way to the bar, pulled the female bartender to his side with a single finger and a nod of his chin. She smiled and flirted with him prettily as she ignored her other customers, poured him a lowball of black-label whiskey over ice. Peter offered her a human grin, holding out the wolf’s edge for better prospects. This one was too young, too skinny, dressed in black and makeup that was too heavy.

Not his type.

Not that he had a type - Peter was an equal-opportunity seductor - but tonight he was looking for something… different.

Something that would hold up a little better under… pressure.

Accepting his drink with a half-smile that he’d dimmed down to polite disinterest, he turned his back on the bar and surreptitiously broke a tablet of dried, powdered mistletoe into the glass. Giving it a swirl, he took a bracing slug, felt the warm burn of it roll smoothly down his throat to pool in his belly. He had no plans to get drunk tonight, there was more fun to be had sober, but he had nothing against the slight buzz that the doctored whiskey would give him, the relief from the constant, unending tension in his muscles from withholding what he was, the inanity of living everyday as harmless, so very, very…

A low growl rumbled up out of Peter’s chest, inaudible over the dark beat of the music throbbing out of the speakers that hung above the dancefloor. Pushing his way through the frenetic crush of bodies, all pressed close and rubbing against each other, the mingled scent of sweat and sex, drugs and adrenaline. A part of him was irritated being here, taming his instincts down to what was _acceptable_ , trading one type of hunting for another, one type of prey.

Finding a seat along the back wall, he sank down onto the chair and let his knees fall open, leaned back in easy repose as he propped one elbow onto the table beside him and sipped at his drink. His eyes swept slowly across the dance floor, surveying the herd as it were, and somewhere deep in his chest his wolf rumbled and shifted restlessly on its feet. It was anxious tonight, alert, looking for a way off the heavy chain Peter was forced to keep it on.

He was loathe to admit that he still felt more unsettled than he would have hoped for. Typically by now he’d fully relaxed into the calm of the hunter, all stillness and patience, but tonight he was still tense, taut like razor wire, the _waiting_ so much more tangible that it was whining in his ears, a high-pitched whistle so much like a hunter’s sonic emitter that it set his teeth on edge.

But it was more than that, so much more than he was willing to confess to.

Instinct was telling him that he shouldn’t be here, no matter how much he needed to be. That he should be at home, in his own territory, healing up while correcting the utter clusterffff…

Well hello.

Peter raised an eyebrow, meeting the gaze of the muscle-head out on the dancefloor that had just run his eyes over Peter’s frame for the third time. He was tall, taller than Peter, with a broad chest and heavy arms all strapped with strength, tattooed half-sleeves shown off nicely in his thin tank top. Caramel colored skin, a shaved head, dark eyes that glinted in the dark; he looked the type to think that he enjoyed control, to think that he could force Peter back against a wall or down into a mattress and take.

And Peter?

Well, Peter was the type to enjoy watching him try.

At least until he got bored.

Watching the man approach, Peter raised his whiskey, let the glass click against sharpened canines as he drained the last of it, the fast shot of mistletoe driving heat into his blood and making his eyes flash for the briefest space of a heartbeat. He could see how it would go, how eventually he would tire of the game and need _more_ , need to flip their tangled bodies until he was the one on top, until he could pin the man’s wrists down hard, leave finger shaped bruises on the skin over his hips and teeth marks in his neck. Until the oh-so-human idiot was so lost in the twist of pleasure and pain he didn’t know which was which and could only beg for more when Peter used his claws to open up long, wet furrows over his torso, leaned down to lick the coppery salt of his blood into the back of his throat.

“What’s a man like you all alone for?” a voice in his ear.

Peter had been so caught in his fantasy that he almost jumped, almost missed the man pulling up a vacant chair entirely. He barely contained a roll of his eyes, an irritable growl at the cheap pick up line.

A man like him could do damn well in a place like this; he’d chosen it tonight for just that reason.

A man like the one next to him however?

Well.

He’d just lived up to all of Peter’s expectations.

It was written all over him, in the way he held himself with his arms out from his sides, the way he smelled like confidence and steroids and cheap beer. The way he spoke, uncultured, with half an inner-city accent still clinging to uneducated words.

Almost everything about him was unpleasant, grating on Peter’s senses, and that was exactly what he wanted tonight. Something that thought it was strong, powerful, _invincible_ , something that Peter could sink his teeth into and take apart until it knew its place, knew its vulnerable humanity.

“Perhaps I prefer it that way,” he purred, cutting his words with a charming smile that screamed _playing hard to get_.

The man smiled in response, his eyes lighting with something such common interest, such dim sharpening of wit that Peter practically yawned. Something was curling in his belly, stretching itself out, getting ready, and that was the only thing keeping him in his seat.

“Well, would you prefer another drink over an empty glass?” the man asked, nodding towards his empty tumbler.

Peter ran his gaze slowly over the other man, felt lust leap in him that really had nothing to do with the specimen at his side and everything to do with the hot, bubbling energy in his limbs that he couldn’t shake, needed to channel into a hard fucking. At the same time another part of him recoiled, told him that this was dumpster-diving at its finest and far beneath any acceptable standards. Part of him wanted that, but the rest of him, the wolf in him, snapped its teeth with the desire to run this trash off with his tail between his legs and fear pounding in his chest. He smelled of marijuana and the sweat of others, the dull bitterness of old socks that told Peter he practically lived in a gym.

But he was big enough to take it rough, to let Peter’s darker, harder side emerge without causing too much damage, everything that he’d come out to find tonight.

Everything that he wanted.

Peter felt the uptick in his own chest more than heard it, the skip that said he wasn’t being entirely truthful.

He always had been the only person he couldn’t lie to.

Images of pale skin flashed behind his eyes, the warm, spiced scent of clean earth and ozone a ghost in his nose, nothing like the cologne-soaked Hispanic male currently panting for his attention. 

Holding back a vicious snarl, Peter shoved to his feet, startling his admirer just a bit.

That was not the reason he was holding back, not because of _him_ , not because of the stupid boy back in Beacon Hills so determined to fix him, so determined to prove himself a provider.

And damn it, that wasn’t what the kid was actually _doing_ either...

Reaching down, Peter fisted his hand in his chew toy’s shirt, dragged him up into his space so that their chests were practically pressed together and Peter’s teeth were mere inches from the man’s collarbones, breathing in the hot scent of his neck just beneath his jaw.

“I’d prefer a dance,” he rasped, his voice thick and rough, and he could feel the near-imperceptible tremble that zipped like electricity over the man’s skin, anticipation tightening him up like a wire.

“I’m Ricardo,” he grinned, teeth unnaturally white under the lights that flashed over the dance floor, and Peter could see that he was waiting for a response but he wasn’t going to get one. He didn’t need Peter’s name for what they were going to be to each other, no more than Peter had needed his.

Circling his fingers around the man’s wrist, Peter turned and dragged him out onto the dance floor where a dark, wild, base-filled song had already begun, his heartbeat leaping into the rhythm of it as he spun the man around, grabbed him by the hips and jerked him backwards, his ass flush with Peter’s front.

_Let’s take a blast to the moon baby_ ,  
 _I sit around wishing you well_.  
 _How I’m craving you, Yeah_!  
 _Every time I’m near you_ ,  
 _I always wanna swallow you down_ ,  
 _I’ll be right here if you need me_.

Peter felt his eyes flare in the dark, knew they were gleaming a cold, steel blue but he didn’t care. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, his fangs prickling in his mouth, and he could feel his claws breaking though his fingertips. Tightening his grip on the man’s hips, he pulled him in even harder, grinding against him when he heard him gasp in reaction to the needling pain of Peter’s hold as he dipped his fingers beneath obstructive clothes, tracing intricate, deadly patterns. Already his pulse was pounding, almost frantically in his veins, his control falling away, and he could feel his wolf raging in his head. He felt like he was being torn in two, excited, anxious, desperate to get away and desperate to bite, and before this he’d never cared. This felt right and wrong and perfect and terrible all at once, the rush of music and adrenaline and mistletoe all making his head swim as he allowed the man in his grip to turn, to palm Peter’s hips and pull him closer, all uncoordinated thrusting and no rhythm, no sophistication.

Just a dog humping his leg.

_Let’s take a trip to the stars far away_ ,  
 _Where were you when I was down_?  
 _Staring into the dead_.  
 _My pain is caused by my pleasure_ ,  
 _And my soulmate lives in your body_ ,  
 _I can’t get you out of my head_.  
 _It never goes away_!

Hands came around to grip Peter’s ass aggressively, the bite of blunt nails almost non-existent through the denim of his jeans, but he supposed it was the thought that counted. Sliding his hand smoothly up the man’s chest, Peter curled it around the back of his neck, pulled him down as if for a kiss but knotting his fingers in the man’s hair at the last second, turning his head roughly and burying his nose in the curve of his neck. He could smell the lust there, so delicious that it made his stomach churn, burning in his nose like smoke. A warning thrummed beneath his skin but his tongue swept out to taste the sweat at the hollow of the man’s throat anyway, his mouth working to pull the blood up to the surface and ready it for a hard bite, but it exploded dusty and bitter in his mouth like crumbling brick and mortar, making him jerk back hard.

That wasn’t right, that wasn’t…

Something was wrong, his wolf rearing back and twisting away, snapping, snarling, ready for a fight, but the man in front of him just grinned in what he thought must be a predatory way. Pressing his hands hard into Peter’s torso, he ran them up and over his sides, dragging over the deep lacerations beneath his rib cage. Barking out a hard sound of pain Peter pulled violently out of his grasp, half crouching as he bared his teeth against the flare of agony coursing like fire over his lower abdomen.

That… that wasn’t right. That wasn’t…

Looking down, Peter’s eyes widened as a dark stain began to spot his shirt, red and tacky as blood somehow began to seep through his bandages. The sight of it caused a spike of panic in him, his wolf still bucking and wrenching at his restraint, demanding he set it free, let it run, let it hunt...

Because he wasn’t where he should be, wasn’t with…

“ _Shit_ ,” he gasped, pushing off his knees until he’d gotten himself upright again.

Ricardo had taken a step back and away, was watching him with some bastard of caution and concern on his face, all of it for himself as he held up his hands in a motion of surrender.

“Woah, man, are you…”

“Screw off,” Peter managed around a mouthful of sharp teeth, and the man’s heartbeat jumped hard before he was retreating into the crowd at a clip, practically running.

Some much so wasted.

Growling under his breath, Peter tightened his hand around his abdomen and retrieved his jacket, slipping it on before anyone could see the blood now coating his side. The heated-needles pain from that first night was back again with a vengeance, rolling like waves of electricity across the length of the long, curving lacerations and it almost had him stumbling as he crossed the parking lot, climbing onto his motorcycle. The ride was hell, the bike wobbling dangerously as he rode with one hand, the other pressed low against his belly, like he could keep the pain away by sheer force of will. By the time he let himself back into his apartment he was a pale, sweaty mess, his shirt thoroughly ruined even before he shredded it with the claws he couldn’t seem to pull back, the bandages going with it to expose the inflamed, bleeding cuts left days before that still hadn’t seemed to have started healing.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Peter sluiced the wounds with peroxide, hissing when the solution frothed and bubbled along the cuts, running in pink rivulets down to his hip. They continued to bleed even as he patted them dry with cotton, covering them with thick pads of clean gauze all along his side before wrapping himself up tight with tape and bandages. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would go see that damned druid of a veterinarian, get himself stitched up and put this to rest in a bloody six foot hole…

Staggering out of his bathroom, Peter felt a wave of dizziness come over him, followed closely by a sense of bone-deep exhaustion. Apparently blood loss was still a thing for werewolves when you didn’t heal automatically, when you got sliced up like a Christmas ham.

Sugar then - if he remembered right - juice to rehydrate and replace what he was losing like a leaky sieve.

Pulling open his refrigerator, he sighed and took a minute to lean into the wave of cool air that came blasting out at him. Dragging his gaze back into focus he shuffled through the top shelf, searching for a carton of OJ without success. A high-pitched whine broke out of his chest, embarrassing even in the isolation of his empty apartment, and he practically collapsed back against the freezer, letting the other side’s door fall shut apathetically.

There was no way he was going out for Gatorade in his condition, and unfortunately he didn’t have his nephew’s sweet tooth - there were no hidden stashes of chocolate in his apartment.

Peter’s gaze ran tiredly along the counter as he considered just chugging a gallon of water and collapsing into his bed when landed on the box he’d thrown there that afternoon, and this time it was an angry, blood-chilling type snarl that exploded out of his chest.

This was _his_ fault, little idiot, with his immature spark and his baking and his stupid mouth…

Stomping across his kitchen floor, he shredded the box with his claws and spilled pale green cookies over the countertop, inhaling the scent of toasted pistachios and sugar deep into his lungs.

God damned Stiles.

If he lived through this, he was going to kill that kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moon Baby belongs to Godsmack and is a hard, hot song I can totally see Peter dancing to...


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles ended up doing what Peter asked.

Not intentionally of course; he’d never follow an order just because the CreeperWolf had given one. To his mind that was all the more incentive to do the exact opposite. It was just that after snapping at him on the couch, getting punched abruptly in the gut with a whole lot of bad-touch vibes and then warned off, his temper had flared and being pissed had taken the place of feeling guilty.

Seemed like that was the safest option.

And anyway, if the guy wanted to suffer let him - it was no skin off Stiles’ back.

Except... It would have been, wouldn’t it? Off his back and a whole lot more if it weren’t for Peter’s interception of the as-yet-unnamed monster of the month.

And _that_ was the thought that plagued him, kept coming back to tickle at his brain when the house was quiet and still and he didn’t have anything better to do than tiptoe downstairs and make use of the oven while his father slept.

Better baking than sleepwalking.

Still, he’d been annoyed enough, both with the older man and with himself, to stay away. Yes, Peter had saved his life, but from the way he’d been acting, from the things he’d said, it wasn’t like it had been a conscious decision. He hadn’t said to himself ‘ _hey, let’s save Stiles_.’ It was just a heat of the moment thing, a reaction in the midst of battle that had had the fortunate side-effect of keeping Stiles’ flesh exactly where he liked it - on his bones.

So what did he really have to feel guilty about?

It wasn’t like he could _control_ his Spark yet - honestly, he’d just fallen in to the thing and Deaton sure wasn’t helping. He certainly hadn’t fucked up on _purpose_. And anyway, Peter was a werewolf, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t just heal up from it and move on.

And _hello_ , um, it was _Peter_?

ZombieWolf extraordinaire, murdering ex-alpha nutcase.

Well, maybe not so much anymore, but still, a self-entitled dick with too much sass-mouth and too many stupid v-necks…

God, he hated that guy.

Even more now, after he’d gone and done what he did, saved Stiles’ significantly-more-than 147 pounds of still pale skin. Jackass, making him feel all this _crap_ \- gratitude and guilt and confusion... Ugh! He was starting to get the werewolf’s aversion to feelings.

Letting himself fall forward against his seatbelt, Stiles thunked his forehead off the jeep’s steering wheel with a muted grumble before he pulled the keys from the ignition and jumped out, heading for the steps of the renovated Hale House.

It was nice that the old, burnt-out shell had finally been torn down. He’d never dared suggest it himself, but he thought erecting a new home in the place of his old one had been good for Derek. The ex-alpha was far less broody now, calmer and looser than he had been even when Stiles had first met him, that first year before things had really gone to hell. Now, as Scott’s right hand he seemed to have found a good balance between leading the pack and not carrying the weight of the damned world around on his shoulders. It made things easier for all of them, the whole, messy little pack they had amassed, easier knowing that the one they still looked to as a sort-of-alpha was… content.

And besides, having a Pack House was everything awesome that Stiles could have wanted, the perfect frat house experience only so much better. It felt like _home_ , always full of the people nearest and dearest to him, full of love and laughing even when they were buckling down to deal with whatever new thing the Nemeton had called into the territory.

Like they’d done over this past weekend.

It had been three days since then, three days since Peter had stormed out of their de-brief before it had even started, and Stiles had been keeping mostly to himself, attempting to ignore the strange, unsettled feeling rolling around in the pit of his stomach as he binged on Netflix and take-out, determined not to step foot into the kitchen. Now he was late to the summons, having had to scrape himself off the couch and into a long, hot shower before he was suitable to be seen (or smelled) in public. Pushing into the house, he didn’t bother with the war-room but instead headed  
directly for the dining room, the sounds of laughter and clattering ringing from the kitchen.

Over the last few months, Derek had been a huge asset in helping Scott get his act together as Alpha, but _this_ , this had been all Stiles’ idea. It took a little collaboration - he’d managed to annoy sufficient information out of the youngest Hale to know that this was a normal thing for wolf packs that they’d really just never had the time for - but now every other Wednesday morning was set aside for a potluck-style brunch set against alternating Saturdays spent running, wrestling, eating, and flopping into huge puppy-piles for terrible movie nights. It was bonding like Stiles had never really experienced before in his life, not to this scale and magnitude, and from the way the others had reacted on their very first trial run, he wasn’t the only one enjoying the new arrangements. 

“Hey guys!” he called as he emerged from the hallway into the dining area, “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey, where’s the cinnamon rolls?” Liam demanded, sticking out his lower lip in a pout as he stood up from beneath the counter.

Stiles chuckled, came forward and threw his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders to drag him in and rub his knuckles through his hair.

“Sorry kid,” he grinned cheerfully. “Ran out of time this morning.”

“Boo!” Scott heckled from his position at the counter, squeezing orange juice into a container of ice and crushed strawberries. The Alpha’s cooking was deplorable, so he was consistently put in charge of making his mom’s Sunrise Punch whenever they got together, which would be finished off with 7-Up or Champagne depending on their mood. “You know the rules Stiles!”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Stiles grumbled good-naturedly, strolling over to clap his friend on the back - whoever failed to contribute to the Wednesday brunch was in charge of snacks the following Saturday.

Continuing his rounds, Stiles greeted Kira and Lydia both with a kiss on the cheek, offering Derek a nod before pretending not to notice the way he brushed shoulders with him as they traded places around the cabinets, scenting him easily. The werewolf still wasn’t overt with his contact, but he’d made huge strides in giving and accepting touch, and the closeness was enough to ease the tension in Stiles’ shoulders a little bit. He might not be a wolf but he was still pack, and being surrounded by it reassured him just the same.

Since he couldn’t contribute to the cooking being done by the rest, he danced around them as they took turns at the stove instead, collecting plates and silverware to set the long, dark, wooden table, seven places, just like always. He even double counted because he usually missed a glass or two, somebody coming up a fork short in the middle of their French toast, but then he was frowning and double counting the bodies too.

Seven right?

Except only six.

“Hey where’s Peter?” he asked, hoping his tone sounded more casual than the question had felt in his mouth. He’d been so focused on trying not to think about the older wolf that it had actually surprised him when he’d finally noticed his absence.

“When does anyone know where Peter is?” Derek asked, lifting a huge platter of ham and sausage from where it was keeping warm in the oven and transferring it to the table, his customary contribution to the world of protein. “I haven’t seen him since he left the other day.”

“Yeah, he hasn’t been answering his phone either,” Scott added, giving his pitcher a stir and moving slowly round the table to fill the glasses. “You must have really pissed him off.”

“What?!” Stiles demanded indignantly, earning a smack from Lydia as he almost knocked her off her balance and sent her family’s famous potatoes O’Brien to the floor. “Ow!” he yelped, before turning his glare back on Scott. “What did _I_ do?”

The alpha just shrugged, trading Kira a kiss on the cheek for the bowl of scrambled eggs she was carrying. Pulling out a chair as the pack slowly came together at the table, Stiles reached for a scoop of the fruit salad Liam had tossed together, the spot next to him conspicuously empty. For the next few minutes things were loud and hectic as they helped themselves and dishes were passed, the clatter of cutlery and clanking pans causing a racket as plates were all shuffled around to be filled and made room for. Stiles found himself grinning and laughing along, smiling at Lydia across from him and contributing to the loud, rambunctious atmosphere, the strange tightness in his chest loosening as the pack talked and joked around the table.

Things settled down a bit eventually, everyone too busy eating to be quite so conversational. During the lull, Stiles began to feel his attention jumping back to the empty place beside him, the missing acidic drawl that so often filled the short silences at the table. For all his complaining Peter rarely missed one of their pack bonding times, even if his participation in the big fights was always uncertain. He might not join in the dog pile or the good-natured tussling but he was almost always there, almost always a part of things, even if it was just to watch.

It made Stiles nervous, made his foot tick against the floor as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

 _No one_ had heard from him? In three whole _days_? He almost never contained his contempt for them that long - it seemed like he couldn’t help but send the occasional derogatory text, couldn’t stop himself from waltzing into the house just to watch them with judgmental eyes and scoff at their battle plans.

Stiles had only gotten half a look at Peter’s injuries that night before the man had shoved him back, only gotten a glimpse when he’d apparently lost his mind and invaded the werewolf’s space, practically ripping his shirt right off him. What he _had_ seen though, well... it hadn’t been good.

What if he…

Shaking his head, Stiles shrugged it off, determined not to dwell on the werewolf’s absence, unsure why he even cared. Instead he tuned back in to the conversation occurring between the rest of the pack, a debate that had already been hashed over several times. Lydia was in contact with Jackson, who in turn was in contact with Isaac, and she was currently in the middle of her bi-monthly attempt to convince Derek and Scott to invite them both back to Beacon Hills from Europe. She seemed sure that that was all it would take, sure that that was all that was stopping her old boyfriend from coming home. Stiles wasn’t so sure about _that_ , but her argument was actually pretty good. Both of them had been bitten by Derek, both were technically _his_ betas, even if he wasn’t an Alpha anymore, and bringing them into the fold would expand their pack, making it even stronger.

As much as he hated Jackson and as much as Isaac annoyed him, Stiles could see the sense in calling them home. With the Nemeton up and active, their battle to hold the territory and keep its supernatural population in check seemed never-ending, and having another set of eyes and teeth on their side, two sets, would make the workload seem just a little bit lighter.

Still, he had heard the argument often enough to know better than to get involved. It was better to just let Lydia fight the fight, to wear the alpha and first beta down until she got what she wanted. He didn’t mind anymore really, he was over her well and good by now. Oh, he still loved her, but it was a different love, one of a sister or best friend, one of two people who had shared terrible and wonderful things that they would never be able to forget.

And he could see how she and Jackson might still come together after all this time, might still come back to each other in the end.

After all the things he’d seen in the past few years, the existence of ‘true love’ and ‘soul mates’ wouldn’t surprise him in the least.

Even if it did seem a little too hokey for Beacon Hills.


	6. Chapter 6

Standing outside of Peter’s apartment, Stiles hesitated with his hand poised to knock, unable to make his knuckles connect.

After brunch with the pack, he’d sent Peter a text but hadn’t gotten any response, and while that in itself wasn’t so unusual, it had made nervousness twist in his belly like tentacles, cold and slippery and suction-y. Knowing that his werewolf healing wasn’t as on the ball as Stiles would’ve expected it to be didn’t help. It was unsettling, how driven he felt to go check on the man, how loudly alarm bells were pinging in his head. He tried to ignore it all, went home and attempted to submerge himself in the world of Halo III, but eventually he found himself wandering into the kitchen, reaching for a large steel pot.

It wasn’t baking so it didn’t really count. At least that’s what he told himself. He hadn’t even been sure what he was doing when he started, made no conscious decision to cook anything specific, certainly not for _Peter_. Chicken soup was easy enough to fancy up though; broth, browned chicken, some ramen noodles…

Add some snap peas, a spoonful of peanut butter, and a squeeze of sriracha and you were in business.

While he got the pot up to a rolling boil he resolutely refused to consider the implications of his actions - the chicken soup for the invalid cliché. So maybe getting his father’s old, dented thermos down from a dusty cupboard did mean that he planned on going to see Peter, that didn’t mean he was going to play doctor with the  
guy.

He’d almost panicked when that thought flitted through his mind, dropping the thermos onto the counter and burning his forearm when he jumped sideways and touched it to the side of the pot. Yelping in pain, he managed not to spill the entire thing over his legs, but it proved a good distraction, the pain much more central to his mind at that point than the image of Peter’s strong, stubbled jaw and broad shoulders. After rubbing the burn liberally with a stick of butter from the fridge, he carefully filled his thermos with soup and got into his jeep, not thinking about where he was headed until now, until he was standing in front of Peter’s door with no possible excuse to justify it other than the truth.

“Just get it over with Stilinski,” he muttered, chewing on his lower lip. “Make sure he’s still alive and go.”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles raised his fist one more time and knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing in his ears like an accusation, but no other sound came, no shifting from the apartment beyond, no welcoming words or banishing snarls. Frowning, he looked left and right down the hall, disconcerted even though there didn’t seem to be any other tenants, any other _apartments_ on the whole floor. Knocking again, he shifted anxiously as he waited, unsure of what to do now, but for some reason, instead of just propping the bottle carefully on the door mat and beating it to the elevators like he’d done before, he pulled his keys from his pocket and crouched down in front of the locks.

He hadn’t done this in a while - not since he was young actually. He’d gone through a phase where spying and super-sluething and all the gadgets were a thing, and learning how to pick locks had come with the territory. His methods had evolved over the years; he now carried a handcuff key in his wallet and, coincidentally, a small metal shim on his keyring. Outside of the doorknob, Peter’s security consisted of a single deadbolt and nothing more, no doubt supplemented by his own brand of insurance - namely the painful disembowelment of whoever owned the scent that dared to break into his space. That really should have deterred Stiles’ efforts, but listening for the tumblers came back to him as easily as riding a bike, and before he knew it the door was swinging open to an ominous silence.

Swallowing hard, Stiles stood slowly, keeping his keys in his fist on the off chance that he was going to need a makeshift set of brass knuckles. The heat of the thermos tucked into his elbow coupled with the burn on his forearm was making him sweat, or maybe it was just the anxiety, but either way it was enough to get him over the threshold just to set the thing down on one of the expensive, granite countertops. There was an eerie quality to the silent kitchen that made the hair on Stiles’ neck stand on end, and before he knew it he’d tugged off his hoodie and draped it over a bar stool, some instinct telling him he needed to be free to move hard and fast.

“Peter?” he called loudly, as much to break the silence as to warn the wolf of his presence. “It’s… hey it’s Stiles. You’re kinda freakin’ people out man, are you alive in here?”

No answer.

Still, something was humming on the periphery of his senses, just beyond what he as a human could feel. Maybe it was the spark in him, maybe he’d just spent too much time with werewolves, but something didn’t feel right.

“Oh dude, are you dead?” he groaned, advancing slowly down the hallway even though his voice wavered as he poked his head into first a bathroom and then a small laundry room. “I swear to god, if you’re dead I’m gonna bring you back again just to kill you! I shouldn’t have to be the one to find your…”

Stiles’ last words broke off in a comical play of stereotypical shock as he reached the last door and pushed it open, coming face to face with what might very well be a dead Peter Hale. He was lying spread-eagle on a huge four-poster bed, clothed only in a pair of tight, dark jeans twisted low on his hips, and there was blood splashed across the sheets, a veritable mess of old rust and bright new ruby. From where he stood frozen in the doorway Stiles could see the long, curving gashes that marked his side, blood caking the wounds and smeared all across his abdomen and up his rib cage. As his feet carried him slowly closer he could see that the skin was swollen and inflamed, that Peter’s chest was rising and falling almost imperceptibly, and that proof of life should have been reassuring but his heart was still pounding in his chest, fear almost choking him.

He didn’t know how long he would have been paralyzed in that doorway if Peter hadn’t moved, his face contorting in a pained grimace as clawed hands suddenly fisted in the bed sheets, his teeth bared as he arced up off the mattress with a distressed sound, half scream and half snarl. 

Staggering forward like he’d been shoved, Stiles darted to the side of the bed, his hands automatically flashing out to press the wolf’s shoulders back down onto the bed, muscles banded tight beneath his touch and skin sweat-slicked.

“Shit, _shit_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth, leaning forward to use all of his weight to keep the wolf down as he began to buck up and against the restraint. “Peter! Come on man, take it easy!”

His words didn’t seem to be getting through because Peter was still writhing beneath him like he was trying to escape Stiles’ touch, his eyes still tightly closed, and there now was an ominous edge to the rumbles coming up out of his chest. A feeling of great stupidity came over Stiles then - he’d invaded a wolf’s den, one who was volatile on a good day and who now was injured and weak. If Peter felt that Stiles was a threat he was going to come up swinging, and he was already half shifted, his ears pointed and his teeth sharp.

“Hey, hey, _easy_ ,” Stiles implored, suddenly desperate to calm the unconscious wolf before he came fully awake. “It’s me, it’s Stiles. I’m pack right? I’m safe.”

Something in his tone, the fear or maybe the insistence, must have gotten through then, because Peter’s eyes suddenly flashed open, the normally searing cobalt color cloudy and hazed with fever. Still they found Stiles’ almost instantly, their gazes locking so tightly that it was impossible for Stiles to miss the strike of fear that jumped between them like lightning. It had Stiles’ breath catching in his throat, locked it inside his ribcage until the wolf looked away, shook his head vehemently as he twisted from side to side, a high-pitched whine breaking out of him so pained and pathetic that it had a half-hysterical laugh burbling up out of him before he could catch.

“You’re ok, you’re ok, you’re ok,” he babbled frantically, pushing Peter’s sweaty hair back from his forehead, cringing at the heat beneath his palm even as Peter flinched away from his touch. The wolf was soaked in perspiration as were the bed clothes beneath him, his body burning up far beyond the temperature that even werewolves ran. Darting a panicked glance around the room, he saw a pile of tattered fabric and gauze dropped in a bloody pile on the floor, all that was left after Peter apparently shredded it, but there were no other clues to help him, just the raw, inflamed wounds low on the werewolf’s side.

“Ok, ok,” he panted, his hand now curled around the curve of Peter’s neck where it met his shoulder, thumb brushing across the wolf’s throat even as he continued to shake his head and twist back and forth on the mattress, sheets long ago kicked to the floor. “Ok, we need to cool you off.”

There was no way he could get Peter into the bathtub without the man’s help, so he pressed him down to the bed one more time before running for the freezer, grabbing anything and everything he could find that would serve as a suitable ice pack. Two seconds later he was back in the bedroom and Peter seemed to have settled, fallen a little further into unconsciousness, only turning his head the slightest bit away as Stiles approached the bed, his upper lip lifting in a sneer. Dumping his load on the edge of the mattress, Stiles grabbed the hem of Peter’s jeans, sent up a quick prayer that the man didn’t go commando, and dragged them off.

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” he breathed, daring a quick look to find the man suitably covered in a pair of charcoal-colored boxer briefs.

He didn’t think he could’ve handled a naked Peter Hale right this second.

Working quickly, he packed the werewolf into a little tomb of frozen peas and mangos, tucking bags of iced peaches and baby corn along his sides, beneath his arms and knees. He was careful to avoid the wounds which appeared in desperate need of a cleaning, so once he found the bedroom’s thermostat and got the AC cranking, he went back to the bathroom where he found a half-empty bottle of peroxide and a package of cotton gauze on the sink. There was a towel on the floor ruined with coagulated blood and he grabbed that too, carrying it back into the bedroom and climbing onto the bed to tuck it carefully under the edge of Peter’s body. It was an awkward position trying to lean over him even though the werewolf appeared to be fully unconscious now, so Stiles took his chances and straddled his thighs, bending over him to carefully clean his wounds.

It was worse than Stiles had thought, worse than he’d seen that night so many days ago. There were three claw marks breaking his skin, starting on the smooth planes of his abdomen below his navel and curving up and around his side to end just beneath his rib cage. They were deep too, cutting all the way through the skin and maybe even some muscle, the edges puffy with infection, and the peroxide hissed and foamed and bubbled up as Stiles poured it slowly over the lacerations, carefully cleaning away the blood and what seemed to be a thin, clear, sticky substance that clotted against Peter’s skin.

It took the rest of the bottle of solution and half the gauze to get the werewolf cleaned up. His breathing seemed just a little bit easier, his chest rising and falling more smoothly than before without regular hitching, and he was lying still now, his face not so twisted. Stiles’ skin wasn’t sensitive enough to detect a difference in Peter’s temperature when he touched his forehead, but after climbing off of the man, Stiles turned all the bags to keep the chill against him, the fruits and veggies already going a little soft as they began to leach the heat from the fevered wolf.

Staggering backward to collapse against the wall, Stiles felt a wave of exhaustion come over him as his adrenaline began to drain away, his fear banked but still very much alive. Something was terribly wrong here, and he did _not_ have the know-how to fix it. Fumbling out his phone, Stiles sent a 911 to Derek and Scott both, just in case he needed an Alpha at his back. Typing out Peter’s address, he requested a delivery of Gatorade, Peroxide, and bandages, a grocery list that was sure to garner a quick response, before wandering back out to the kitchen. Downing a glass of water at the sink, he quickly refilled it and took it back with him, slipping into his hoodie as he went to combat the coolness beginning to collect in the air.

Setting the glass down on the bedside table, he reached across to place his palm against Peter’s forehead, his shoulders tightening when he found the werewolf’s skin just as flush and damp with sweat as when he’d left. He flinched under Stiles’ touch, attempted to twist away and let out another pained bark, a new gush of blood dampening his side as he turned, and Stiles lurched forward to drop his weight onto the man’s upper chest, pinning him down again.

“Stay still, you idiot!” he hissed, ignoring the flare of pain from his burn as he pressed his forearms down on Peter’s ribs.

The wolf snarled and then there were teeth snapping way too close to Stiles’ face, sending him flailing back and away. Heart thundering in his chest, he debated his next move when a knock sounded at the front door.

“Thank you!” he huffed, casting a glance skyward.

Er, ceiling-ward.

Whatever.

“I’m coming!” he hollered, bolting for the front-door, swinging himself into the hallway with a hand on the door frame. Barreling down the hall, immensely relieved to no longer be the only one dealing with this disaster, he flung the front door open to reveal a puzzled looking Derek and an anxious Scott shifting on the mat, grocery sacks rustling in their hands.

“Stiles are you ok?” Scott immediately yelped, “What…”

“Peter’s messed up dude,” Stiles interrupted by way of answer, grabbing hold of the bags and dragging the werewolves with him across the threshold. “Get in here and help…”

An inhuman roar exploded behind him, drowning out the rest of the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who reads, reviews, or leaves kudos here and on my other pieces. You're delightful people and I don't thank you nearly enough to accurately express my appreciation.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles hit the deck like one of the navy’s finest, dropping to his knees entirely on instinct and throwing his arms up to cover the vulnerable back of his neck as a blood chilling roar exploded just inches behind him, echoing round the high ceilings of the apartment and beating a tattoo against his eardrums. Probably not the smartest move - getting the hell out of the way might have been a better one - but before he could act on that second, wiser instinct a clawed hand was biting into his shoulder and throwing him backwards, deeper into the apartment as a half-shifted Peter leapt around him to land in a crouch, snarling and baring long, white fangs at the two werewolves outside his door. Ever-ready for a fight, Derek charged forward to meet him, but somehow Stiles was quick enough to scramble back up onto his knees and throw out his arms in a flailing motion that had the younger Hale stagger-stepping to a halt.

“No!” he shouted, “Jesus, don’t _fight_!”

That was just what they needed - more bleeding werewolves!

Still leaning forward in a battle stance, Peter shook his head and snarled, eyes blazing through the fog of heat that was sending a red flush down his neck, blood once again coursing down his side and soaking his shorts. His claws were held at the ready, every muscle in him taught as a wire as he challenged the wolves invading his territory, and it was _funny_ that Stiles could suddenly see what was going on so clearly. That he knew Peter’s mind even though he wasn’t a wolf, knew how stupid it had been to call Derek and Scott of all people…

“Scott _stop_!” he commanded as the young man postured and flashed red eyes, and Derek looked just as surprised as Stiles that it wasn’t working, that Peter wasn’t backing down before the True Alpha.  
“Just… just back up. Nice and slow ok?”

And slow it was, painfully slow, but both their shoulders eventually dropped, lips fell over teeth and boots took shallow steps back until they were once again over the threshold, crowded into the door jamb from the hallway. Peter unfortunately didn’t calm much with the distance, still snarling and snapping his fangs, straining forward like it was taking everything he had to hold himself back.  
Climbing slowly to his feet, careful to keep himself inside the edge of the wolf’s peripheral vision, Stiles lifted trembling hands, his mouth dry and his heart hammering in his chest.

He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know how he was going to fix this, but Peter hadn’t killed him yet and he’d been in the apartment for a while, so…

“Stiles _don’t_ ,” Scott hissed, his eyes glowing, and the sound of his voice set Peter off again, sent him lurching forward with a clawed hand swinging up, ready to gut the younger man, but then Stiles did what he did best and threw himself stupidly and impulsively into the path of death to save his best friend.

“ _No_ ,” he yelped, and then he was ducking under Peter’s arm and catching him in the chest for a tackle, crashing into him like a battering ram only the werewolf didn’t give an inch, so it was like hitting a brick wall. “Oh god, don’t kill me please, just noooo…”

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he turned his head away from the impact, unknowingly showing the wolf his throat, his hands planted flat against his chest, skin slick with sweat and muscles bunching beneath his palms. His whimper seemed to cut through the fog blinding the wolf to reason because he flinched back so fast it was almost comical, looking down at Stiles plastered against him like a barnacle and sniffing, snuffling at him like he couldn’t really see him. It had a wave of calm coming over him, like _oh, thank god, maybe he wasn’t about to be killed_ , but then Peter’s face was wrinkling in a grimace and he was shaking his head, letting out some kind of weird snort/sneeze that had Stiles stepping back in offense.

“Oh, like you can judge, you jerk!” he snapped haughtily, sarcasm coming to his defense again even though he suspected that the words didn’t mean anything to the guy in this particular moment, and really all they were to him was a distraction from the fact that even in this primal, enraged state, Peter knew who he was.

Tolerated him.

“What the hell is going on?” Scott whined from the doorway, and when Peter’s attention turned back to the door with another rumbling snarl, Stiles threw one hand out behind him to shut up the alpha and pointed another finger in the sick beta’s face.

“No, we’re gonna be _quiet_ now,” he said on a growl of his own, equally to both of them before turning his attention to soothing Peter. “I get it ok?” he murmured. “You don’t like them. You don’t trust Derek and you don’t trust Scott. You’re sick and you’re hurt and you don’t want them in your den.”

It was an explanation to the others but the babble seemed to be calming Peter down too, even though he’d started pacing and sending death-glares over Stiles’ shoulder. He avoided the fact that Peter apparently trusted _him_ , or at least more than his nephew and alpha, enough that he wasn’t catapulting him out one of the high-rise windows.

“What’s wrong with him?” Derek asked, his voice low and deep and somehow grating as he tracked Peter back and forth across the floor.

“He got clawed up by that thing the other night,” Stiles explained, his eyes finding the bloody gashes on the wolf’s side. “He’s not healing. When I got here he was passed out in his bed, bleeding all over the place. I think he’s running a fever.”

“So what do we do now?” Scott asked, watching Peter warily. “Get Deaton?”

And holy shit was that the kiss of death, because if it weren’t for Stiles leaping into the way again both werewolves may have been killed right there. He didn’t know why Peter checked his leap, skidded to a stop to avoid just steamrolling him, but at the moment he didn’t really care. Whatever was burning away in the wolf’s veins was content to leave him alive right now and that was good enough for him.

“Ok, so yeah, we’re not talking about _that_ again,” he scolded, heart in his throat as he waited for Peter to back down again, backing away from him with a grimace, shaking his head like Stiles was offensive to him on a base level.

Whatever dude.

“So, stitches?” he proposed, risking a glance back at Derek. “How does that…”

“That might be his only option,” the younger Hale rumbled. “If he’s not healing he can’t just… keep bleeding all over the place.”

“Ok,” he breathed instead, “Ok, ok, ok. You,” he demanded, turning to point a harsh finger at the werewolves in the doorway. “Do _not_ come into this apartment. I’m too young and pretty to be eviscerated saving your asses. We need the stitches without the vet so call Lydia. He likes her more than you guys, so that might work. We need to get his fever down so I’m gonna try to dump him in the tub.”

“Stiles are you…”

“Stay!” he snapped, whipping around to glare at Scott who looked ready to call this plan stupid and drag him out of the apartment kicking and screaming, but Derek was already typing away at his phone with a scowl of concentration on his face. “I mean it Scott. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with him but his wolf doesn’t like you and I’m pretty sure that’s what’s running the show right now.”

Turning to said wolf, sizing him up as he continued to pace back and forth across the floor, Stiles chewed at his lower lip, unsure why he’d been able to control him to the extent he had so far and unsure how to keep doing it. 

“Ok dude,” he said, low and easy but still firm, brooking no argument. “We’re gonna take this nice and slow all right?”

Keeping his hands out in front of him in what he hoped was a calming gesture, he took a smooth, steady step towards the still angry werewolf and was surprised but immensely relieved when Peter retreated in turn. He was still watching Stiles carefully but it wasn’t with the hot hatred and crafty wariness that he’d watched Derek and Scott with. It was actually pretty close to the way he always watched Stiles, like he was half impressed and half offended, with a little bit of creepy curiosity thrown in just for giggles.

He was actually expecting an eye roll at any minute.

Moving slowly, with his slender, oh-so-breakable arms between them, Stiles slowly herded Peter back down the hallway towards the bathroom. Too smart to try to force him into the small, enclosed space, he abruptly realized he was going to have to change tactics, but with Peter glaring and snuffling at him from a distance too close for real comfort, he had no idea where to go from there.

“Ok,” he breathed again, his brain already off and flying. “Ok, ok, ok.”

So Peter’s wolf was in the driver’s seat right now - he could deal. The guy was just hurt, going entirely on instinct… Stiles could play to that. Appeal to Peter’s baser nature.

But what was that?

He knew homicidal alpha Peter, manipulative zombie creeper Peter, but what did Peter’s wolf want? It couldn’t be that different right? He’d already done the revenge thing to death, literally, so what was left? Pack?

Eh, not quite right, but maybe... safety?

He was hurt so he’d sought out a safe place, didn’t feel safe with Derek or Scott...

So maybe Stiles just needed to prove himself the safe option.

And unfortunately he thought he might already know how to do that.

“Aw man,” he groaned, before casting a quick mutter in the direction of the front door. “If either of you ever mention this _EVER_ I will kill you.”

Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the half-shifted wolf, tilting his head to bare the side of his neck. It had the hair on his arm standing up, submitting to Peter like this, showing him a vulnerable place so easily scarred, but it perked the beta’s interest, his blue eyes narrowing in on the gesture.

Well, never do anything half-assed right?

Swallowing his pride, Stiles lowered his eyes and coughed up a high-pitched, keening whine. It was a human sound, stupid in his own ears, but Peter went stiff as a board and his low rumblings stopped immediately, as if he were trying to get a better listen. Stiles obliged if begrudgingly, starting up with a pouting whimper, slowly stepping closer and closer to Peter’s side until he was hunched beneath the wolf’s looming presence. What he did next he’d only ever seen on TV with real wolves, so all he could really do was hope to God that it wouldn't get him killed.

Reaching up on his toes, he sniffed lightly at Peter’s neck, then buffeted the underside of his jaw gently with his face. The wolf eased just a bit but seemed confused, made a whining sound of his own as Stiles rubbed his face against the curve of his throat. His skin was flush and heated there, musky and rough with stubble, and Stiles jerked back sharply when he found himself with the sudden urge to bite. To sink his teeth into thick, corded muscle and lave his tongue over the man’s throat, taste the sweat that had collected at the hinge of his jaw.

That... that wasn’t right.

It was _Peter_ , he didn’t want...

Whatever. It wasn’t like the guy could or would consent right now anyway.

Not that Stiles wanted...

GAH!

Oh great, and now the guy was sniffing at him again with that creeper look that normal Peter sometimes got...

“All right you, come on,” Stiles demanded, starting to back slowly into the bathroom just to get some space between them. “Come on, come to Stiles.”

Putting on his best come-hither pout, Stiles tried a few more of the whimpers that had seem to work so well, and sure enough Peter was cocking his head and following slowly after him, eyes suspicious but still foggy with the fever heat that had been strong enough to singe Stiles through his clothes. If the heaving of his chest with anything to go by, Peter was still cooking from the inside out, and Stiles refused to believe that he was gawking for any other reason than a clinical assessment. He might not be as cut as his nephew, but Peter still had an impressive set of muscles, muscles that he was more likely to keep hidden than the other wolves of the pack. Normally all Stiles got treated to was the glimpse of a strong, thick neck tapering into broad shoulders, put on display by obscenely low-cut v necks.

And okay, that was so not where he wanted to go right now.

“Time to cool off,” he muttered, have to himself and have to Peter as he reached into the shower stall and got the water running, strong and chilly. “Come on, get in.”

Peter just stared.

“Oh for God’s sake, come on dude,” Stiles whined. “This already sucks, don’t make it worse.”

Tugging on the wolf’s arm, he wrangled around and tried to shove him inside but Peter was having none of it, and after three minutes of trying to move the wall, carefully avoiding his injuries but still getting hot, slick blood all over his hands, Stiles finally gave up and climbed into the shower himself, dragging Peter after him with a pathetic, affectedly miserable whimper.

“You’re an ass, you know that?” he grumbled, wriggling around to maneuver the beta beneath the spray, his own clothes already soak through. “Even if you are sick.”

A little more rough handling eventually got them situated, though to Stiles’ dismay there was scant room between them and the narrow shower stall.

“You know I would’ve expected you to have a nicer bathroom,” he commented, turning Peter sideways so that the water ran across his ribs, sluicing rusty red down the drain. “Something a little more... opulent. You seem like the closeted pretty boy type, counters full of hair gel... Not that you’re pretty!” he yelped, pulling his hands away from the other man like he’d been shocked and looking down, another huge mistake.

Because yeah, Peter was still wearing his boxer briefs, but by now they were soaking wet and plastered to _everything_ and Holy God if that’s what Peter looked like _after_ a cold shower…

“Whoa, hey!” he yipped as Peter suddenly swayed towards him. “What the hell do you...”

His adamant defense of his virtue wasn’t necessary however, because the next thing he knew Peter’s eyes were rolling up in his head and he passed out in a dead faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got all kinds of away from me. Let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Sandwiched between the wall of the shower and the dead weight of an unconscious werewolf, the only sound Stiles could make was a garbled _mmrmph_ as the air was driven from his lungs. Peter’s face was smooshed into his arm pit, the sharp curve of his shoulder riding hard against Stiles’ sternum, and it took all of his strength to wiggle out from beneath him and lower the man down into the bottom of the stall, propping him up in the corner and getting the water turned off so he didn’t drown.

“ _Crap_ ,” he muttered, clambering out of the shower and trying to get his startled heartbeat back under control. “Crap, crap, crap!”

“Stiles?!”

“I’m ok!” he hollered, relieved that Derek and Scott had followed his directions to stay out of the apartment and hadn’t just come charging in. “Peter fainted!”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard snickers.

Poking his head out into the hallway he sent a glare down to Scott, who had a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Derek scowled at him and opened his mouth to scold but then his head snapped to the side, his stance relaxing minutely before Lydia’s bright red hair appeared in the doorway, shouldering roughly between the pair and marching towards him.

“Stiles what’s going on?” she demanded, the words sharp enough to cut if the edges hadn’t been softened just enough by concern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m ok,” he repeated, touching her forearm and drawing her into the bathroom alongside him. “Peter… eh, not so much.”

“Oh my… _god_. Stiles, _what_ …”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, climbing back into the shower and getting himself behind Peter, grabbing him under the arms and hefting him up as best he could. “Come on, let’s get him back into the bedroom.”

Since Lydia deigned not to help haul the soggy, practically naked werewolf, Stiles had to drag him up the hallway himself, Derek and Scott watching with unimpressed faces from the front door, but he still refused to trade their muscle for letting them into the apartment. He may or may not have knocked the unconscious man against a few frames as he took the corners, both of them dripping all over the hardwood, but eventually he got him back onto the bed, dragging him up onto the middle of the already ruined mattress. Laying him out like a sacrifice, he shoved Peter’s arms above is head, out of the way of the wounds on his abdomen, watery-pink rivulets trickling down his side.

His boxers had been dragged down along the way and were now riding dangerously low on his hips, and what was meant to be a quick glance to pull them back up got stuck, Stiles’ eyes widening at what he saw. On Peter’s side, low on his abdomen where the crease of his thigh met his groin was a thick, black triskele, inked deep into the skin. It probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did - it was the Hale sigil, he knew that - but he’d always thought of the mark as Derek’s. It was a jolt to realize that it had been Peter’s before it had been his nephew’s, that it had belonged to him first, but it was an even bigger shock to his system to think that it belonged to him at all. He so rarely thought of Peter in that capacity; as a member of a pack, a family that welcomed him with love and open arms, without fear or suspicion…

That triskele branded him as something different than Stiles had thought he was.

Jumping when Lydia cleared her throat, cheeks heating as he firmly avoided her gaze, he tugged the man’s boxers back up where they belonged, covering the mark. His fingers were like ice and the heat coming off of Peter’s skin was tempting, but there was no way he was spreading his palms over the wolf’s chest the way he suddenly wanted too.

Jerking back like he’d been burned, Stiles tightened his fingers into a fist. He wasn’t sure what was going on - yes, some part of him had always been attracted to Peter, the power and confidence he projected, but he’d never considered acting on that before, not like these past few days…

Shaking his head to clear away strange thoughts, he reached up and touched the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead.

“Damn,” he chuckled, halfway to some kind of weird hysteria as he drew his trembling fingers back to his chest. “I can’t even…”

Her hand flashing out, Lydia took his fingers between her own and rubbed them vigorously.

“Stiles, you’re freezing,” she chastised. “Change, now.”

“I don’t have any clothes here Lydia,” he reminded her, the _duh_ tacked on silently.

“Then wear some of Peter’s,” she snapped, placing her own palm against the werewolf’s forehead, not even flinching when he suddenly twisted and rumbled beneath her touch, his lip curling up to show his teeth. “We’ve already got one sick pack member; we don’t need another one.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Stiles clambered off the bed and crossed the room to the rosewood chest of drawers, jerking a couple of drawers open roughly. He didn’t even want to know what Peter was going to do to him when he found out Stiles was wearing his clothes. Unwilling to step into Peter’s underwear, he found a pair of old Cal-Tech sweatpants and a black t-shirt, worn threadbare and soft, naturally a v-neck. Peeling out of his wet clothes, he dropped them onto the floor with a plop, not even caring enough to check that Lydia still had her back turned before pulling on his borrowed clothes. Slipping the tee over his head, he caught a whiff of pine needles and cologne and something else, the same dark spice that had clung to the curve of Peter’s throat. 

“He’s still warm,” Lydia said, startling him enough to get his head through the neck of the t-shirt and walking back to the side of the bed. “But I think you’ve got his fever down enough that he’s not going to cook his own organs.”

“He’s still bleeding though,” Stiles pointed out, the wounds on the werewolf’s side far less angry and inflamed, but still weeping fluid.

Twisting in place, Lydia reached into her purse, pulling out a small sewing kit and a lighter. Opening the plastic case, she flicked the stone of the lighter with a harsh rasping sound, running a thin, shiny needle through the flame.

“Go get those bandages Scott brought,” she instructed, picking up a miniature spool of black thread.

Nodding, Stiles cast one more look at the unconscious wolf who was starting to grimace and writhe in the middle of the wet, bloody mattress. Seriously, there was no saving that thing. Scooping up his sodden clothes, Stiles carried them back to the bathroom and dropped them into the bottom of the shower with a loud _splat_. Grabbing a towel from the cabinet, Stiles scrubbed it over his hair, making it spike up in a hundred different directions before wrapping it around his shoulders. Taking the stack of clean gauze sitting out on the sink, he checked behind the bathroom mirror and found a small bottle of iodine to add to his cache before heading to the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Scott asked from the door while Stiles dropped his armload onto the counter, slipping into his hoodie and shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. “Stiles, what happened?”

“What?” he asked before following Scott’s gaze down to his forearm, his burn now an angry, red weal on pale, chill skin. “Crap,” he muttered, reaching for the door of the fridge.

“Stiles…”

“No, it’s from earlier,” he reassured his friend, grabbing a stick of organic butter from the door.

_Organic_ butter.

What a tool.

“I’m fine,” he said, rubbing the stick over the burn. “Peter passed out in the shower but his fever’s down. Me and Lydia are gonna sew him up and then I guess we… go from there.”

“We need to figure out what that thing was,” Derek growled, looking more contemplative than anything as Stiles took the plastic bags that they had dropped near the fridge and rummaging through for clean ACE bandages. Still, he was pretty fluent in reading the man’s eyebrows at this point, and he could see the concern that edged along the cut of his mouth. “He should be healing by now.”

“Can you go talk to Deaton?” Stiles asked, scooping up his supplies again and juggling them for a better grip. “Try, anyway?” he corrected.

Derek didn’t answer, just nodded before casting a look towards the back bedroom and disappearing silently down the hall towards the elevator. Rolling his eyes, Stiles sent Scott a smirk - more to reassure the anxious Alpha than because he was really feeling - and headed back to their impromptu surgery. By the time he got there Lydia had threaded the needle and was resituating herself on Peter’s other side, closer to her target, but it seemed like the wolf was starting to come awake again, shaking his head and snarling like he’d been when Stiles first found him. 

“He won’t stay still!” Lydia said snippily, as if the older man were doing it on purpose, throwing out a hand to steady herself as the mattress lurched beneath her. “I can’t sew him up if he’s going to be   
twisting around like this!”

“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked indignantly, crossing to the other side of the bed and climbing aboard so he could drop his weight down onto Peter’s shoulders. “It’s not like I can… woah!”

Peter jolted like a bolt of electricity had gone through him beneath Stiles’ hands, limbs stiff and straight as his back arched and he pressed up against his hold. Bright blue eyes flashed open and locked on his for the briefest second, but then he noticed Lydia and he was snarling and showing his teeth and pushing away from her as he scrabbled back against the sheets, not nearly as vicious now as he had been with the werewolves.

“Hey, _easy_!” Stiles urged, hands in the air now in a calming, hushing gesture while Lydia just sniffed haughtily. “It’s ok. Come on Peter, it’s just me and Lydia. She’s gonna fix you up ok?”

Slowly he reached out, touched his fingertips to Peter’s shoulders and the wolf went still again, still enough anyway. His chest was still heaving and his skin was still damp and warm despite the icy shower, and the way he was crunched back against the headboard looked painful if the way his abdominal muscles were shifting and contracting was any judge. With some pushing and pulling Stiles was able to tug him back down flat on the bed, one hand resting tentatively in his hair and the other pressing down firmly on his shoulder. Lydia flicked a curious look his way before bending over her task, hands steady even though Peter was watching her with an eerie, deadly intent and rumbling constantly from somewhere deep in his chest. She did quick work though, working over each of the three lacerations with deft, fluid movements, making Stiles’ stomach turn the one time he risked a glance just to see Peter’s skin tug as she pulled on the thread and drew the sides of the wound together.

After that he kept his eyes on the wall, his weight still leaning down heavily on the werewolf even though he made no move to jerk away.

He was surprised then, when he felt something brush against his forearm; a puff of warm air, the soft skin and stubble.

Flailing backwards, Stiles might’ve gone careening off the bed onto his butt if a clawed hand hadn’t flashed out and locked tightly around his wrist, dragging his forearm toward a fanged mouth. Stiles made a strange, squawking sound as old memories flooded his brain - a chilly parking garage and a proposition, a question posed as the vulnerable pulse point of his inner wrist was exposed. Peter’s eyes were bright and vacant, nothing behind them but cool, azure light, and he could hear the vague, smoky burble of Lydia’s voice off to his left like it were coming through water, but then Peter was making a high-pitched, keening whine and rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ inner forearm, running his nose up towards his elbow with small snuffling sounds. Stiles’ eyes went wide and he flinched hard when the wolf reached the angry, red burn there, flinched again when his tongue flicked out over the mark and began to lave at the skin, licking off the butter and smoothing over the welt.

“Dude, what the hell are you…?” Stiles yelped, trying to pull away, but Peter’s grip was firm and relentless. “Lydia…”

“Just let him do whatever he wants Stiles,” she snapped, her voice clearer now as the fog slowly filtered out of Stiles’ brain. “I’m almost done and he’s staying still.”

“But he’s _licking_ me!”

“He’s a wolf,” she stated simply, her hands moving quickly now as she tried to finish her stitch work. “You’re his pack.”

“So? That doesn’t explain why he’s _tasting_ me. Unless he plans on killing me and eating me - he did say our cemetery’s getting too full. Oh god. That’s it isn’t it? And anyway, I’m not his…”

“Done!” Lydia declared, snipping off her extra thread pointedly. Packing up her kit, she apparently decided to take pity in him and reached over the bed to uncurl Peter’s claws from his wrist. The wolf   
glared at her heatedly with a low snarl, but Lydia just flicked him on the forehead, something Stiles wouldn’t have dared to do under any circumstances.

“Knock it off,” she said smartly, ignoring Peter when he snapped his teeth in her direction. Instead she smoothed some antiseptic over his side, covered it thickly with gauze, and then pasted over the whole thing with bandages, sealing it up tight while Peter’s skin flickered under her hands like a colt’s. “Come with me,” she said, standing up and collecting her things in stilted, jerky movements. “I need to wash my hands.”

“Erm, right…” Stiles mumbled, following behind while looking back over his shoulder at the wolf who was glaring at him from the bed, making no move to follow. “Lydia, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she frowned, stepping into the bathroom and waiting impatiently for him to lean forward and turn on the faucet. “Something’s wrong with him, that’s for sure. Peter has excellent control; it’s not like him to be like this.”

“Praise for the creeperwolf?” Stiles asked, arching one eyebrow. He wouldn’t have expected that from Lydia.

“Just a statement of fact,” she said, flicking the water off her hands and taking the towel he offered her. “He’s almost completely regressed, acting on instinct…”

“Derek went to see Dea… um, the DMV,” Stiles corrected hastily, aware of prying ears in the other room. “See if there’s any information about the thing that cut him up in the first place.”

“Hopefully he has something useful to say for once,” Lydia replied, taking his arm lightly in her hand and turning it over, drawing her fingers over the burn that Peter had spent the last few minutes molesting. “I don’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, taking his arm back as goosebumps rolled down over his exposed skin. “Yeah.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody had anything to say about Peter's tattoo?!? I thought for sure I would get some kind of flak for that haha. Anyway, enjoy the chapter guys - thank you so much for putting up with my crazy, grad-school-induced schedule. To anyone who reads, reviews, and leaves kudos, you are amazing and the reason I love doing this!!

Hot.

Too hot.

He was burning up, his whole body on fire, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t get away from it. It was licking at his skin, raking over him in waves, and it was all he could do to grit his teeth and hold on, twist and writhe against the sheets in agony as the fire in his belly burned its way through.

He knew that he was making small, pained noises but couldn’t hear them, knew he’d made it to his bed before collapsing but couldn’t see, and his mind was a hazy fog of ache and anxiety slowly building into fear, all disconnected thoughts that fell further and further away from coherency. He could feel his human side withdrawing, his wolf charging forward to take control as it protected his fragile link with sanity from the dreams of ash and flame that threatened to drown him as heat coursed over his body in vicious waves.

Fire.

Screams.

Screams, and then silence, nothing but the gentle shift and pop of coals bedding down in his mind, the quiet rustle as he twisted away from the damaging heat that destroyed all that was left of him.

For a time it was all he could do to just breathe, to keep his body going, his heart beating, and even that felt like too much. It was painful, his blood hot and sluggish in his veins, everything just burning up… 

He had retreated well and good into his mind by the time a voice called out his name, muted and far away. His humanity had fled, buried itself somewhere deep along with rational thought, and it was a wolf’s ears that perked, listening to the far away sounds of someone, something moving nearby. Something that had invaded its space, encroaching upon its vulnerability, and it was that threat that the wolf fought against, clawing its way up and out of paralysis to defend itself, but in regaining control the pain came flooding back, worse than ever before.

Claws gripped and clutched, its breath coming in rapid pants as it twisted and writhed, tried to escape from beneath the weight of the pain as it snarled in agony. Arcing its back, it tried to buck the hurt off its body, but then there were hands holding it down, pressing it back into its bed of coals and it snarled its fury, lunged to the fore and slashed its way through the last of the fog keeping it trapped inside its own head, its senses bursting free of the heat that held them trapped.

Fear cut through it as it met the gaze of its assailant, hot and sharp like a bolt of electricity, but it was gone as fast as it had come because the wolf knew those eyes. Warmth and whiskey, but cold with cleverness too, and all its instincts said that this Boy hovering over him was dangerous, capable of dealing great hurt, and the sudden, frantic effort escape came jerking from its muscles without warning, breaking the stare and trying desperately to shake off the hands that held it. This was wrong, the wolf’s instincts on red alert, and it flinched when a gentle hand touched its forehead, brushed the fur above its brow. A voice above it babbled words that meant nothing to its ears, but the fear and panic in the human’s tone had the wolf settling ever so slightly, its sense of smell finally catching up to the rest as it panted and gasped for air.

It knew that smell, familiar even though it was heavy and sharp with anxiety. It grasped for something in the back of the wolf’s mind, tickled at an instinct that it knew. It felt like… family, like _pack_ , and a high-pitched whine was wrenched painfully from its chest, prompting the hand at its shoulder to slip down beneath its jaw and brush over its throat. There was no threat in it, only comfort, soothing on quivering, wire-taut nerves even as the wolf fought the sensation. It almost submitted to the feeling, almost went slack beneath the human’s touch but then suddenly it was gone, vanishing from above it as if it had never been and suddenly the wolf felt like it could breathe again, its chest heaving a great, pained sigh.

It seemed as though relief were to be short lived though, because the heat came lashing back at it like an electric current, so painful it couldn’t breathe even when that scent came back and hovered near its back feet. Something tugged, shifting its hindquarters and it was like being freed from a trap, everything going loose and unrestrained even if it still couldn’t run, and then suddenly there was something cold being packed around its body - icy, blessed relief all around it, cooling the painful fire simmering beneath its skin. So soothing, so achingly wonderful was the relief that the wolf didn’t even flinch when the Boy, the one who smelled so very good, climbed over it, didn’t even consider that it was on its back, exposing its vulnerable belly in what was a terribly submissive position. It should’ve sent it into a spasm of fight or flight, but then something damp and rough was swiping at its lower abdomen, a tongue cleaning the stinging wounds.

The action as much as the cooling sensation was calming, had it relaxing back against the ground beneath it as its panting slowed. For a time it just lay there, trying desperately to recover as its mind retracted, sinking deep into darkness and hovering there, still and quiet. So long did it linger there that it didn’t notice the return of the Boy, not until a hand on its brow spooked it back into alertness, making it flinch away from what came hurtling in as a threat. Pain twisted in its gut as the wolf lurched away, but then there were strong bands across its chest forcing it down, demanding its submission and it panicked, snapping its teeth and thrashing away as best it could. A sound echoed from somewhere nearby and a hissed mutter shattered through the fog, recognition of the voice draining the fear from its muscles as it slumped backward, the Boy’s presence retreating once again.

A quiet whimper broke from the wolf’s throat as it clawed and dragged its way through the dense fog holding it down, searching for the presence that was so calming to it, the scent that was so sweet at the back of his throat.

_Mine_.

It could hear the Boy’s voice, anxious to its sensitive ears, and the wolf forced itself up from the ground, blinking muzzily and shaking its head from side to side, clearing away the last of the smoke as it staggered to its feet. Lurching towards the archway through which the Boy had disappeared. It could hear other things, other voices, and then the scent of two others hit it full in the face, two other wolves, one almost an enemy, the other family but not quite to be trusted, and fury blasted through it so strongly the pain all but vanished. They were here, invading its territory, threatening it in its injured vulnerability, and far too close to the Boy…

Bearing its teeth, the wolf let out a vicious, animalistic roar and leapt.

The only thing that stopped it was the smooth, beautiful way that the Boy dropped to his knees before it.

It was the perfect distraction for the wolf, checking it hard enough mid-attack to slow it down, forcing it to attend to the risk to the Boy instead of the risk to itself. Reaching out a powerful forelimb, it batted him backward roughly in reprimand, behind and out of the way. Lunging round him, using its broad shoulders to block the others’ view of the Boy, it crouched and bared its fangs, snarling loudly and violently in challenge. The larger, the more dangerous despite their shared blood, met its challenge, charging forward as it spread its feet, ready to do battle but before it could go for the throat the Boy was there again, shouting and throwing up his arms between them. There was panic in his scent, but more than that there was irritation, resignation, and that was the only thing that kept the wolf from killing the intruders right there.

Shaking his head and rolling its heavy shoulders, the wolf snapped and snarled, holding its ready position as its muscles quivered. The other wolf, the one that waited in the doorway was growling now, his chest puffed out and eyes flashing red, and the wolf felt the tug of an alpha’s command but it wasn’t an alpha it recognized, wasn’t an authority that bound it. Even if it had been, there were things more important at work, ancient instincts that went deeper even that that of the hierarchy of a wolf pack.

Straightening up, the wolf raised its head, raised its hackles in defiance.

The Boy lowered his voice, a calming stroke down the wolf’s spine as the others lowered their shoulders, covered their teeth and backed away, stepping out of its claimed territory. Snarling, snapping its jaws, the wolf pressed the advantage, leaning forward strongly in a ready stance, but beside it the Boy got slowly to his feet, his heartbeat racing in his chest even as he took a slow step towards its side. The wolf felt its muscles relax as the Boy came in close, rocked slowly back on its heels, but then golden eyes and an alpha’s voice snarled at the vulnerable young man and old, protective instincts came crashing down on it, had its claws slashing on the attack.

The strike would’ve killed the smaller wolf. Alpha or not, it had gone for the throat, the vulnerable jugular so close to the surface.

The Boy saved him.

The wolf checked the movement just in time, the Boy colliding with its broad chest and pressing it backward as he whimpered a plea whose words went misunderstood. Startled by the odd behavior, the wolf looked down to find the long, smooth arc of a pale throat bared to it, a jolt of heat flitting through its whole body. It could feel its pelt rise, hair standing up on end as it bent to snuffle at the curve of his neck. The scent there was clean and sharp with just the barest hint of interest, relief and anger all mixed up together, but the bitter spice of fear had the wolf wrinkling its nose, stepping back and shaking it off with a sneeze.

That wasn’t right, shouldn’t be there… The Boy was safe, safe with the wolf here, standing for him in the face of the intruders…

The Boy barked at the wolf smartly, making it narrow its eyes, but then the Alpha snapped again, drawing its attention back to the doorway as its chest puffed and it widened its stance, posturing before it. The Boy too let out a growl, made sharp, stabbing motions with his hands and the wolf took a step back, began to pace. The heat was coming back to it, emanating from its belly and spreading out through its limbs, weakness when it needed strength in front of wolves who weren’t safe, weren’t to be trusted. Turning back to him, the Boy stepped forward with his hands out to his sides, murmuring low and slow. His voice once again served to calm the wolf and its hypersensitive nerves, soothing to irritated senses.

A few sentences passed between the Boy and the others, calmer, easier, but then a sound that meant fury and fear and bitterness came from the Alpha and things went a bit black from there as the wolf’s fight response took over. It came to awareness again with the Boy pressing him back, no taste of blood in its mouth, but it was still unsettled by the spell, shaking away the heat and smoke kicked up by the anger. As the Boy pressed forward it retreated, matched him step for step as they moved deeper into safe territory, deeper into the den while watching him with careful eyes. The scents of irritation, confusion, and embarrassment sparked in the air, the wolf snuffling after them interestedly, and then the world turned on its axis as a throat was deliberately, intentionally bared.

The wolf froze in place.

Lowering his eyes and tilting his head away, the Boy whined - keening, high-pitched, _perfect_ \- and the wolf ceased its rumblings instantly, cocked its ears in interest as the Boy whimpered and whined, sidling closer until he was practically curled against the wolf’s chest, sniffing and nuzzling beneath its jaw. It was flirtatious, intimate, and the wolf felt its tail rise, felt a primal pride sweep through its body as the boy scent marked him, whining and rubbing against the wolf’s throat as a bolt of arousal tainted the air. It almost snarled when the Boy jerked back sharply, the scent fading off even as it tried to follow it, ready to sink its teeth in to hold the Boy in place, but then he was retreating coyly, pouting and whimpering as he went.

It was enough to tempt the wolf into the small, narrow space the Boy had disappeared into, too tight, not enough room to run or battle, but he had gone in, his scent filling up the room, and so the wolf followed. It watched him with careful eyes, wary interest, its ears flickering when the sound of winter rain began to emanate from the corners. The Boy turned to him, mild irritation on his face as he rumbled and shifted his feet demandingly but the wolf only watched, until the Boy grabbed it by the ruff, pushed and buffeted until it gave in and allowed itself to be maneuvered into the small alcove, rain coming down icy cold and soaking through its pelt.

It had almost forgotten the heat until then, the fire in its belly and the banked coals beneath its skin, burning it up from the inside out. Its belly ached, the tender flesh deeply bruised and split apart like over-ripe fruit, its joints aching. Its limbs trembled a bit with the effort of holding itself on its feet, exhaustion coming over it in waves as a miserable whine broke from its throat unbidden. It was only the Boy’s hands on it that kept it grounded, kept it upright even as he grumbled and pushed at the wolf’s body, pushing it further into the spray of chill water raining down. It tried to focus, to shake the water out of its eyes and the smoke from its pelt but it was being pulled under. A loud rushing sound filled its ears as it swayed unsteadily on its feet, a sharp spike of fear slapping its nose, and then the whole world went black.


	10. Chapter 10

The wolf came to slowly, scents and sounds filtering in before its consciousness could catch up with the cold, lizard-brain at the back of its mind, those first primal thoughts that cared for nothing but survival. It was exposed here - its soft, vulnerable throat and belly - and it began to twist and turn before it even had the control of its limbs back again. Memory was a thing only of senses, and the floral sweetness that stung at the back of its nose told the wolf that danger was close, looming over it like a shadow. It was the scent of fresh-turned earth and cut flowers, granite, dust, and decay, the sensation of a cool spring fog drifting through a graveyard.

It was an intimate presence that the wolf would normally respect and concede a wide berth too.

Now, however, weakened and unable to fully shake unconsciousness entirely, it wanted only to get away, to find some small, safe place in which to hide itself away and heal. The smallest panic began to flush through its body, tightening its muscles as it fought its way through the quicksand of paralysis weighing it down. Thrashing against the ground beneath it, the fear began to build as its restraints seemed to bind it all the stronger, the heat and darkness clawing at its mind, but then suddenly there were hands at his shoulders and the scent of _him_ piercing through the black, and the wolf bolted up against the press of it, exploding through the veil of cemetery fog and sucking in great lung-fulls of air as its gaze met anxious, gold-colored eyes.

For the passing of a second’s time the wolf might have calmed a bit beneath that touch, but then the girl at its other side came to its attention and brought it back to the snarling present, had it showing its teeth in warning and scrabbling backward and away.

It knew that girl, knew her strength and her power and her cunning somewhere deep in the back of its mind. It knew too the familiarity of her, knew the death scent of the mausoleum that clung to her skin as sweet as roses. Still the scent of wolves was all around her too and there was something in her that whispered pack, but the wolf knew her risk just as well, and it was loud and strong and echoing in its chest. She was not the others, but instinct said it would still do well to be wary, and a low growl of warning rumbled between its bared teeth.

The boy’s voice sounded somewhere close in gentle, soothing manner but its attention was too caught, full on the girl until there were fingers pressed to its shoulder and it went unmoving beneath the touch, pressing itself low to the ground and away, making itself small and still. It panted heavily as anxiety pulsed in its veins, the pain in its side almost forgotten in the face of greater threat, but then the boy was taking hold of its limbs, pushing and pulling and forcing it down flat on its back, forcing it into a position of submission. The wolf felt a desperation to lash out then, to bite and slash its way free, but a soothing hand had crept to its brow, stroking softly between its ears in repetitive motion that was hypnotic and calming, another firm against its shoulder, and something in it knew that the girl was of greater threat though the boy was the one looming over it and holding it down. 

So it stayed still.

Didn’t move even when she began to work over its side, brought forth a needling sting that drew attention to the agonizing ache and flare set deep in its muscles and sinking ever deeper towards its bones.

Instead it watched, vigilant, wary, stared with deadly warning and a deep rumble that threatened retaliation the hurt go any further. The boy kept up a steady stream of calming nonsense words that were grounding for it, kept it anchored in its own body as the pain in its side grew, the anxiety of exposing its belly still eating away at its securities. But his voice, his touch was enough, until his grip tightened reflexively on the wolf’s shoulder and a great wave of discomfort swamped its senses.

Eyes flashing open, the wolf turned to the boy who had hidden his face in his own shoulder, swallowing convulsively. An abrupt sort of hunger clenched its stomach as its gaze followed the smooth contraction of the long curve of the boy’s throat, his wrist only inches from the wolf’s teeth where blood pumped strongly just beneath the skin. There was something else there too, smelling richly of sweetness and salt that flooded its mouth and had it snuffling forward, its tongue flicking out to taste.

A flail and a squeal like a dying rabbit drove it forward to sink in its teeth, and the wolf only remembered itself in the last moments, pinning the boy’s arm between its paws and holding it down where it could reach, a hard, high-pitched whine wrenched from its throat as it supplicated itself for its mistake, an apology and plea in one as it sought to reassure the boy by pushing its face against him in contrition, buffeting him with its muzzle. The scent of him, overlaid with the thick sweetness of cream caught its attention once again and had it snuffling along the boy’s arm, wrapping its long tongue around his inner elbow and lapping at the taste of butter it found there. The boy yelped and tugged away but the wolf tightened its hold, ever careful of its teeth as it continued to bathe the boy’s forearm with its tongue, seeking the salty sweetness.

It kept up its ministrations long after it had cleaned all the butter away, a perfect treat, but beneath it the skin was red and a little raw, hot on its tongue with unnatural fever. There was pain there, lurking beneath the skin, nothing too big or too unwieldy, but it made something quiver in its muscles, wakened knowledge that said it could heal that hurt, and so it took its time, curling its tongue carefully over the burn, making soothing little whuffling sounds all the while. The boy struggled for a moment before going still, allowing the wolf its actions which pleased it greatly and made its chest swell with a primal sort of pride.

It might’ve stayed that way, enjoying the flesh beneath its jaws, or it may have made its way up, placed its jaws ever-so-carefully over the boy’s throat and pressing him down with its body, whimpered and whined, growled deep and low as it lapped at the skin of his neck and the ticklish places behind his ears.

But the girl, _not-a-girl_ , danger-girl, was suddenly wrapping her hands around its paws, freeing its prey, and the wolf snarled quietly. Control was all that held it back, strong and solid and steady even as it snapped and crackled at the wolf’s nerves, that and the eyes of the boy on it, tensed with anxiety as it watched for her next move. Huffing haughtily, the girl leaned forward and flicked it between the eyes, saying something in a low tone that was serious and demanding, but with the barest undercurrent of fondness, and the wolf shook its head in irritation, frustration.

More than one instinct told it that lashing out would be a mistake, that all three would end up hurt in one way or another if it did, and so it held back, waited, bided its time with an ever watchful eye. The girl smoothed something over its belly that did nothing to resolve the ache there, but something about the ordeal felt ended, over with, and all the energy went out of it in a great, sweeping pull, its body slumping back against the softness behind it. The boy and the girl both stood and moved back and its eyes followed them, watched them cast anxious glances in its direction before disappearing quietly from the room, pulling the door closed but leaving it an inch ajar.

The wolf lay quietly for a bit, listening intently to the shiftings and murmurs nearby, settling lower to the coverings beneath it as the others quickly left, the two wolves first and then, after a great deal of quiet, serious words the girl that smelled of death veils and cemetery flowers. The boy stayed, moving about the rooms in the patterned way of pacing, and though the anxiety it suggested brought a whine to the wolf’s throat the rhythmic steps and dull ache in its side slowly pulled the wolf down into unconsciousness once again.

**XXX**

Peter woke with a jerk and a snuffle, his eyes flashing open as he lifted his head from the rather uncomfortable surface upon which it rested. He was groggy and stiff, his side aching viciously, and he felt disoriented and vulnerable despite the strange sense of comfortable relaxation in his muscles. Blinking away the fog of the wolf that still clung to him, he flinched beneath the influence of his senses as enough perceptual information to drown him came flooding in.

A rapid, pounding heartbeat.

The sharp, too-sweet scent of fear and anxiety and concern.

_Stiles_.

Taking stock of his position, he realized that he was lying on his side, half curled towards the boy who was leaning back against the headboard, half lying on top of him. His head was resting on Stiles’ side above his hip, claws curled tightly around his thigh just above his knee, their legs tangled together in a way that was proprietary and too-familiar. Stiles’ eyes were wide and practically panicked, his hands held up by his ears in surrender, and a closer analysis of his scent told Peter that their present position hadn’t been the younger man’s idea.

No, everything about this screamed of the wolf, a demanding sprawl that pressed the human to the bed and kept him there.

Retracting his claws, Peter turned slowly onto his back with a light moan, one hand moving to the bandages pasted across his side, and that was when he realized he was naked.

Well, almost.

Interesting.

But then again he didn’t remember falling into bed at all, so what conclusions could he really draw?

Still, he couldn’t resist taking a stab at the boy.

“Not quite the morning-after with you I pictured,” he hummed, running his hand teasingly across his belly and up towards his chest, and didn’t that put a spike of something tantalizing into Stiles’ scent?

“Oh great, you’re back,” he huffed sardonically, jerking the rest of the way out from beneath him and slinging his legs off the bed. “That means I can finally go.”

“No breakfast then?”

“You take all your hook-ups to breakfast?”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he hummed, watching Stiles move across the room at the foot of his bed, scratching at the tape above his hip idly before his eyes narrowed. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

Stiles froze as though turned to stone, his back to Peter as he was halfway to the door, and Peter could hear the jump in his heartbeat. Intrigued, only mildly irritated by the lost time he’d suffered, he stood slowly from the bed, testing his range of motion and finding it sufficient enough, though painful. Moving silently to the boy’s side, he leaned in for a quick sniff at the nape of his neck before stalking round him in a measured circle.

Indeed he _was_ wearing Peter’s clothes - one of his favorite v-necks and a pair of sweats from his alma mater - and he wondered if he would find a pair of his boxer-briefs beneath, but the careful way that Stiles was watching him as he circled suggested that now was not the time to ask, despite his earlier teasing. It was tantalizing though, the thought of either, his underwear or none at all between them, and their combined scent, the _ownership_ of it all, had Peter salivating as his wolf lunged hard in the pit of his stomach.

“Tell me Stiles,” he purred, coming to a stop directly behind him and watching as his spine stiffened, oddly pleased when he didn’t immediately whip around to face Peter, either brave or stupid enough to stand the werewolf at his back, “How did you end up in my clothes? In my bed?”

“We didn’t fuck if that’s what you’re thinking,” Stiles snarled, but a grin curled across Peter’s face when the comment didn’t come with the heat or hatred he might’ve expected it to.

“Of course not,” he replied, smooth as silk lifting a single claw to trail lightly down his spine. “That’s something I would hope to remember.”

“Don’t hold your breath you creep,” Stiles hissed, jerking away at last and turning around to face him. “Or better yet, do. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I become a notch on your bedpost!”

Peter regarded him quietly for a moment before deliberately scratching at the tape again, and he didn’t fail to miss the way that Stiles’ eyes darted down to his abdomen and lower before darting quickly away again.

“It’s interesting,” he observed casually, “This professed desire of yours to see me dead. Especially since it appears that someone’s stitched me back together again.”

“Lydia,” Stiles denied and Peter cocked an eyebrow at him before slipping past and towards the kitchen. He could hear the boy following him but didn’t particularly care - he felt dehydrated and had the strangest craving of his life for a bowl of popcorn.

“And seriously dude, what the hell!” Stiles accused abruptly, flailing his arms from the safety of the opposite side of the kitchen counter as Peter took down a glass and filled it at the tap. “You said you were healing!”

Biting back a snarl, he downed the glass in long, thirsty gulps before refilling it and turning round to lean back against the counter.

“I say a lot of things,” he replied smoothly.

“Why lie about _that_?” Stiles yelped indignantly, and Peter suppressed a sigh. Stiles was the smart one - he should be perfectly capable of answering that question for himself.

“You’re a jackass, you know that?” he snarled when Peter failed to answer. “Pretending to be all macho wolf so everyone thinks you’re strong and invincible when you’re so messed up that you pass out in a bloody mess and give innocent people heart attacks when they come to check on you! Fainting on them in the shower and then going all creeperwolf and molesting them in bed while they try to keep you from bleeding out!”

“Oh so I _do_ need to carve another notch then?” Peter heard himself say, all cocky bravado while his mind whirred with the information Stiles had just spat at him.

Just how long _had_ he been out of it? What exactly had he _done_? If he had still been functional his wolf must have taken over for him, climbed into the driver’s seat and taken a little spin.

It was unsettling to say the least, the loss of control far more concerning than the loss of time, and it set Peter’s teeth on edge with a sudden feeling of great foreboding. Blinking back to present, he found Stiles blinking at him with an indecipherable look, a beat of dead silence echoing between them before he shook his head.

“Screw you Peter,” he said softly, and another innuendo leapt immediately to his tongue against all his better judgement, but before it could be uttered Stiles was out the door and gone with a crackling scent like burning leaves and pine needles.


	11. Chapter 11

Peter was reluctant to cross paths with the pack for the rest of that week, which made going out into town difficult. There was no telling where he might come across one or the other, and he hesitated to see any of them at all, to defend himself against… he didn’t even know. Accusation he supposed, silent judgment of his fitness or the way he’d behaved when he didn’t even fully know what had happened. The gaps in his memory were worrisome, especially considering the fact that he’d been taken so far out of commission by the slashing injuries to his side, but his pride hurt even more at the thought of crawling to anyone for the story.

History had taught him not to trust, that if he couldn’t protect himself physically he needed his mind, to plan, to keep himself alive…

So for the time being, a scenic stroll through downtown Beacon Hills wasn’t in the cards.

Unfortunately, staying in his apartment wasn’t ideal now either.

It had been invaded, contaminated, the scents of his nephew and little Scotty, the Banshee too crisscrossing over his floors, past the threshold and into the kitchen, down the hall and even into his bedroom. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, made him paranoid, constantly turning to minute shifts and sounds, expecting his door to be rudely kicked in at any moment. It never happened of course, and he knew that he was being slightly ridiculous, but he couldn’t shake the discomfort of having had others waltz into his safe haven unannounced, uninvited, _unwelcome_.

He considered moving.

Finding a new place, another bolt hole, somewhere he couldn’t be found. A place that the pack didn’t know about. Somewhere his wolf felt safe.

But that would be immensely inconvenient and was really a rash sort of thought, abrupt and impulsive, so in the meantime he did what he could - bleached down his floors and opened up the windows to get the air moving while he bagged up his ruined sheets and hauled them down to the dumpster. The mattress too was a lost cause, so he’d had a new one delivered that same day, exchanging a generous tip for the disposal of the old, bloodied one without question or police report. And yet all the while, mopping floors and wiping down surfaces, doing his best to get rid of the foreign scents lingering inside the apartment, he ignored the fact that he wasn’t so bothered by Stiles’ being there.

But now it was a full week later, days spent cooped up inside the flat that normally felt so spacious, but that now pressed in on him from every side, like the walls were moving inward an inch at a time so he could only suspect that they were, but couldn’t prove it. Days since he’d spitefully finished off the thermos full of spicy chicken soup he’d found sitting on his counter, just because he knew that Stiles was pissed with him and probably would’ve taken it back if he’d had his way. It felt too much like backing down, too much like hiding for his taste, even if the gashes against his side still bled and wept around the neat black stiches holding them closed and his instincts were whispering to him to bunker down. It was about time he got his shit together and got out, hurt or not, and he couldn’t stay in the apartment forever anyway. It was hardly self-sustaining or self-contained - his refrigerator was going bare and his injuries had only seemed to increase his appetite.

Pacing around his living room, irritable, jumpy, he snarled and muttered nasty things beneath his breath, dragging clawed hands through his hair.

Peter could not be called a true glutton.

Instead, he took all things in moderation, as an exercise in self-control. He indulged, well and often that much was true, in many things, but always with an iron-clad restraint that bordered on excessive. As a young wolf with far less reason or desire to be careful or responsible, he had been rather wild in his pursuit of gratification, but such experience played in his favor now. He knew his limits perfectly having crossed several lines to find them, and age and terrible circumstance had taught him patience, cooling the high fires of youth down to the simmering coals of adulthood that bred cunning and deviousness. Such was half the reason that he had been so great an asset to his sister, able to observe coolly and quietly from the shadows without apparent reaction until it was time to enact the tough decisions, the necessary decisions.

Falling onto his leather couch in a teenage-worthy sprawl, Peter scrubbed his hands over his face with a frustrated roar, only half-muted in deference to the neighbors below him. His heart was beating just a little too fast, his skin too hot and too tight, and he was hungry. The sensation wasn’t one he had appreciated or enjoyed for years - being in a coma, a hospital for so long, he had all but lost his appetite entirely. He still woke up sometimes with the taste of a thin, cold, gruel on the back of his tongue, the poor facsimile of food he’d had forced down his throat day after god damned day. It was the reason he couldn’t stand the sight of raw eggs or watching Derek guzzle down his watery protein drinks, the reason he was willing to open his wallet to spring for organic products and locally grown produce at the farmer’s market.

Because when he did eat, when he did rake together enough of an appetite to do more than just shovel something down to assuage the base demands of his body, he didn’t want MSG’s, pesticides, or chemicals involved in the equation. He didn’t share in the pack’s greasy pepperoni pizzas or their massive orders of dim sum from the local Chinese tea shop. He didn’t go in for processed junk food and the smell of fast food made him sick. Anything that hadn’t been made by his own hand was looked on with suspicion, so he should have recognized the readiness with which he consumed anything Stiles brought with him.

And it wasn’t like the kid was a damned gourmet either.

Until last week he’d made no special efforts to coax Peter’s appetite.

Brownies and cookies were the typical offering, sugary pastries left around Derek’s loft in heavy Tupperware containers, and he’d been known to have a taste though he never attacked the stuff the way the others did. A casserole here, a pot of chili there, it was only family recipes or cheap cookbook adaptations, served family style to the pack he seemed to feel it his duty to feed. He’d even brought a batch of bagels once, an experiment that had gone terribly wrong but that the wolves had choked down anyway, Peter and Stiles both snickering at their self-sacrifice to save his sensibilities.

Nothing special.

So it didn’t make sense, the way things tasted on his tongue, felt in his belly when they came from Stiles’ hand. Didn’t make sense in the way it made him want to reciprocate, made him feel the need to drop something warm and red and squirming at the boy’s feet.

Growling low with disgust, Peter showed his teeth and shoved himself upright, into a more acceptable sitting position. His stomach rumbled quietly as he did, shooting a hot flash of annoyance through his veins.

Six days, seven, and he was having actual cravings.

Hot wings, Denver omelets, chocolate ice cream - things he hadn’t wanted in years, and that he told himself he didn’t actually want now, and yet at the strangest times, in the middle of brushing his teeth or flicking through the sports channels at four am, he _wanted_.

Christ, if his plumbing weren’t all wrong you’d think he was preg…

Fuck.

Peter’s claws bit into the arm of the couch as he froze in place his throat closing and his chest suddenly unbearably tight.

His mate, Sarah, had been pregnant with his cubs when she’d died in the Hale House fire. Twins, their first, and he’d been so proud of that, in love from the first moment. She’d been anxious when she’d learned that they were to have two daughters, sure that he would have preferred a son, and while Peter had assured her that he would treasure any cub of theirs, it was his secret that he’d always hoped for girls, a secret he’d only ever whispered in the middle of the night as he pressed kisses to her rounded, swollen belly, careful not to wake her. Girls that would have her hair and her eyes, his cunning and determination. Girls whose boyfriends he could threaten and who would have him wrapped around their little fingers and would know it.

Peter swallowed hard, clenched his eyes shut against the memories but they held on, clung to his skin like smoke and refused to let him go.

Sarah had gained weight rapidly with the double pregnancy. Almost from the day she’d conceived she had become a little bit moody, and quite a bit self-conscious about her size. Subsequently, for the following seven months Peter had done his inexperienced best to lavish another person with all the affection and reassurance she could wish for, to the point that for some weeks he became the butt of several pack jokes. Despite his well-known pride, however, nothing had stopped him from giving his wife everything she could wish for and more.

And carrying twins meant that she had wished for a lot.

The cravings had started innocently enough.

One or two nights a week she might ask him to pick up something from the store so that she could make a particular meal, or she would mention desiring a certain snack in passing before moving on to other things.

That didn’t last long.

Soon she’d started eating twice as much as he did, something that they’d laughed together about good-naturedly until her hormones wrought such havoc on her that even a chuckle out of him could elicit tears. At that point he’d often handed her off to his sister Talia and run, but he had quickly learned to deny her nothing, no matter how ridiculous the craving.

At the time he hadn’t understood how she could wake up wanting fresh scallops for breakfast, or how she could throw a tantrum like a five year old one night when she’d discovered they didn’t have any peanut M&M’s in the house.

Now, sitting on his couch hurt, hungry, and thinking about his long-dead wife and children, he wondered if maybe this wasn’t how she’d felt sometimes.

Like she was losing her damned mind.

Her favorite had been dill-pickle flavored potato chips and cubes of well-chilled watermelon, fruit that Peter scoured the farmer’s markets for on weekends.

At the thought of the sweet, light flesh of the melon, deeply pink and aromatic, his mouth began to water and his stomach clenched, his abdominals rippling beneath his t-shirt.

Snarling around a mouthful of fangs, he shoved himself up off the couch and headed for the door, snatching up his jacket on the way.

**XXX**

It had been a week since Stiles had stormed out of Peter’s apartment, a week since he’d heard from him, and if he weren’t so pissed with the wolf in the first place he might be a little worried. But damn it, he wasn’t worried, he was _mad_ \- that was his story and he was sticking to it!

Muttering under his breath, annoyed that he was thinking about the stupid jerk at all, Stiles shrugged the hood of his sweatshirt up around his ears against the unseasonably cool weather, the chill rain coming down in drizzles uncommon to California in July. Normally on days like this he would hole up at home, invite Scott over to play video games or maybe bake a little. He wasn’t feeling it today though, too irritable for anything repetitive, too distracted to settle down with anything. And besides, Scott was out with Kira and Liam both, doing who knows what and leaving Stiles to find his own amusements.

Unfortunately, despite the liberal application of his ADHD medication, he felt twitchy and oddly panicked, too big for his skin and with a rare surplus of energy so great that it finally forced him out the door and into the cold for a long, pounding run around the outskirts of town. As he ran he made sure to steer clear of the Preserve and the Hale House, unwilling to be flagged down and dragged into any mythical BS that was certainly overdue.

What, it had been a quiet week, and everybody knew that old saying about the calm before the storm.

Shaking his head, growling with frustration, he put on a burst of speed to take him down to the end of the street before finally slowing to a walk, shoving his hood back and stretching out his arms as he cooled down. He paused minutely as he looked around, realizing with a jolt that he’d run all the way over to what he now considered Peter’s neighborhood. He was still a safe mile and a half from the wolf’s apartment, instinct and anger keeping him away from there even without paying attention, but he was well within the werewolf’s territory. He could _feel_ it.

But there was no way in hell he was going to slink off with his tail between his legs just because he’d found himself in the middle of Peter Hale’s stomping grounds.

Scanning the storefronts on the street opposite him, he started for the last one on the far end, a family-type sort of tea and coffee place. Digging into the pocket of his shorts, he shuffled his phone and his keys around looking for the loose change he’d grabbed on his way out the door. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he got closer to the shop but put it down to the chill in the air, ignored the distinctive feeling of being watched as best he could. Unfortunately, or perhaps luckily for him, years of honing his survival instincts meant that he couldn’t stop himself from scanning the surrounding area, checking every face passing on the street.

Stepping inside, the door chiming a bell over his head, he moved towards the counter, slowly, carefully, the feeling intensifying with each second that passed, so much so that it had his hands creeping down to his sides, a blind search for a weapon that he didn’t have. There weren’t many people inside the small store but the atmosphere still seemed warm, homey, and it clashed violently with the warnings jangling along his nerves. Moving slowly toward the counter, walking half backward and half sideways, he kept a careful watch on the street through the large glass windows. He might not be willing to run from Peter but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t avoid him if he could.

He wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t start a fight if he did bump into him.

So of course bumping into him was exactly what he did.

Turning around towards the cheery greeting of the barista behind the counter, he collided with a broad, solid chest, an apology halfway out of his mouth as he staggered backward before he realized exactly who he’d crashed into.

Peter Hale was less than a foot away, looming over him like a shadow, feeling twice as big as he really was and making Stiles feel like he was cowering beneath him in comparison. His face was emotionless, completely unreadable, and he was watching Stiles intently with empty eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t look away, ghost eyes that made a shiver run down his spine. Taking one careful step back, he instantly froze when Peter’s eyes went ice blue and he too took a hard, proprietary step, pulling him up into Stiles’ space, mere inches separating their chests.

He could feel the heat, the wide, solid presence of the wolf, and it sent sparklers up and down his nerves of more than just warning, more than just fear. There were other things there too, things that were dark and beckoning and that made him want,   
though what exactly he wasn’t quite sure.

All he knew was that it pissed… him… _off_.

“What?” he snarled under his breath, unnerved by Peter’s silence, the flat stare that somehow still needled at him like a laser.

The only response he got was a growl, low and long rumbling up out of the depths of Peter’s chest, luminescent blue eyes flaring, and Stiles darted panicked glances left and right but the few customers surrounding them all seemed to be looking carefully away.

“Dude, what the hell?” he hissed under his breath, giving Peter a short, sharp shove low on his ribs, immediately pulling his hands back when the wolf jerked and sucked in a breath, doubling up just a little as he raised one hand to his bad side.

_Shit_.

“Ok, ok, shit, stay calm,” he murmured quietly, his hands moving to light on Peter’s shoulders, just barely touching, but the werewolf jerked away, drew up to his full high and oh hell, this time he really was looming, that familiar deadly anger on his face. The blue of the wolf had faded from his eyes but that didn’t mean Stiles or anyone else in the immediate vicinity was safe - Peter looked absolutely possessed, and the dull roll and rumble of thunder just outside didn’t make him feel any safer.

“Keep it together man,” he hummed between gritted teeth and a forced smile, again scanning his perimeter from the corner of his eye. “We’re in public.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth drawing up in a sneer and Stiles wondered if he wasn’t about to die, but then the sound of his name seemed to break the older man’s concentration, snapped his fixed gaze away from Stiles and turned him toward the counter.

“Frozen watermelon-lemonade for Hale!”

Stiles blinked, confused, but then Peter was grabbing a tall plastic cup off the counter and was shouldering roughly past, sending him staggering back to crash his hip into the sharp edge of an empty table. Striding for the door, he turned and sent a death glare back over his shoulder, one that was far too chilling given that the werewolf was sucking up a ridiculous pink slush from a green straw, and then he was gone, disappearing out into the rain without a word, the chime above the door the only sound to follow him out.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter spent another four days after that indulging his cravings for fresh fruit and carefully avoiding face-to-face interactions with anyone and everyone, doing such a thorough job of it in fact that Derek had left a message on his phone demanding to know where he’d run off to and that he come back immediately. On principle he didn’t respond until at least three days had passed, making no answer and rolling his eyes at the fact that his nephew was still too stubborn and prideful to just ask for his help. Instead he made snide and instigating comments to that fact, mocking Derek callously because it made him feel better and because on a very base level he enjoyed it.

It wasn’t as fun as it could be though because unfortunately Derek’s _strengths_ lay primarily in his silence. The boy communicated almost solely with his eyebrows these days which made insulting him over the phone not nearly as satisfying as he would like it to be.

But such was life and the rewards of needling Derek to his face weren’t worth the loss of dignity that running to his whistle would cause.

So for now he would simply have to seek his amusements in other ways.

He’d made one foray into that arena already.

Lying in bed at night, trying hard for sleep, his fingers had trailed idly along the neat rows of stitches on his side, counting them, tracing the threads and plucking gently at the knots. The Banshee had done a good job; neat, clean, disgustingly perfect in fact, more than it should be given the circumstances. But she’d done it, patched him up despite their less-than-ideal past, and he supposed that she deserved to be rewarded for that.

Even if she’d only done it for Stiles.

Regardless of the reason, he’d powered up his laptop and gone surfing, briefly considering all things academic that he would have access to that she wouldn’t before discarding the idea. Ever since her ‘coming out’ as an intellectual people had been falling all over themselves to accommodate the change in perception, and he suspected that she might appreciate a bit of the old pandering now. While the point _was_ ostensibly to thank the girl, he was going to do it his way - both he and his wolf respected Lydia, saw her as an asset, an ally, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t above sending a little shiver down her spine along with the gratitude.

A strappy pair of Louboutin’s, black with spiked heels and a blood red sole, would do that job nicely.

He’d had them elegantly gift-wrapped, delivered directly from the manufacturer with only a small card bearing the Hale House triskele, and there had been no report of them being rejected upon receipt. It had a certain Hannibal-flair that appealed to Peter, said that he knew what size shoe she wore and knew her form well enough to appreciate the appeal of her wearing them. There were whispers of sex and stalker to it that delighted him, and he suspected that the Banshee had accepted the gift only because it was a challenge.

She would wear the shoes with impunity, if only to drive their stilettos into his face.

While he didn’t think twice about shelling out to cover the exorbitant price tag the single pair of heels had run him, Stiles was entirely another matter. He had no intention of sending that little smart ass anything, especially not after their run-in at the smoothie shop. No, he just needed to ignore him, to ignore the whole damned mess until he had it all figured out.

Being electronically harassed into showing up to a pack meeting didn’t exactly fit with that plan of action, and it certainly didn’t put him in any mood to be amicable.

Pulling up to the house a half hour later than he’d been told to show up, he stalked into the war room like he owned it and shoved Liam lightly off the stool he was sitting on, taking it for himself while the beta huffed and flashed his eyes. Pushing under Scott’s arm and settling into Kira’s lap on the long bench seat where the little Kitsune cooed over him and stroked his hair, the beta grumbled irritably, but Peter held position over him in the pack so no one did anything more than grumble and shoot him dirty looks. Rolling his own eyes, Peter’s gaze was drawn to the other side of the room where Lydia had crossed her legs with a haughty sniff and a flounce, one sharp black heel swinging, and he felt a devilish grin spread over his face.

‘ _Your move_ ,’ she seemed to smirk.

“Nice legs sweetheart,” he purred, and all around him the pack drew back from the lascivious comment, but Lydia’s smile just widened, all sugar and cyanide.

Yes, she would have made a lovey wolf.

“Peter,” Derek growled in warning.

Rolling his eyes, Peter took a mango from the pocket of his jacket, popped a claw and began to peel it, slowly and carefully in a single strip that fell between his knees towards the floor, longer and longer with each turn. Huffy and petulant, Derek folded his arms and angled his body away, thoroughly ignoring his uncle as he went back to the topic his arrival had interrupted.

“Anyway,” he grumbled, and Peter smirked, his head ducked, entirely unsurprised that Derek was running the show instead of Scott. “Until we figure out what this thing is nobody goes into the Preserve alone. That’s where we’ve found most of the symbols so far, and just because we haven’t found a body yet doesn’t mean this thing hasn’t started killing.”

Well.

Taking a large bite of his mango, Peter draped the peeling over his knee. 

Didn’t that just sum up the last few years, that they immediately assumed their new guest was a killer?

Of course it probably was, but that was beside the point.

Him? He was always inclined to make a new friend before he made an enemy.

Openly chuckling, Peter ignored the fresh glares and growls, the look that Stiles was sending him that said he was questioning why they’d ever conceded to label Peter sane again.

Perhaps they shouldn’t have.

But that was their mistake, not his.

Narrowing his eyes in Stiles’ direction, he let a bit of blue seep in to his irises, watched the boy’s back straighten. He’d intended to ignore him, focused on teasing Lydia and needling Derek instead even though he stood between them, feet planted and arms crossed. Somehow it felt like defeat though, skirting the problem instead of facing it head on, and where normally that was Peter’s tactic-du-jour, his wolf was snarling at the bit to pin the boy down and hold him there, belly up with his teeth set carefully at his throat.

_Show it, prove it, make him see_ …

“Peter!”

Blinking the blue out of his eyes, Peter cut the deep rumble echoing up out of his chest, shocked by the slip in control but hiding it perfectly. Derek was staring back at him with eyes flashing and the rest of the pack was watching him carefully, the air spiced with anxiety and fright at his long, low growl. Only Lydia wasn’t staring at him, her eyes locked instead on Stiles who stood perfectly still, like prey that had caught sight of a predator, and wasn’t that just delicious?

“Something you’d like to share with the class?” Derek asked darkly.

Smirking at his nephew, he sank long, sharp teeth into his mango and pulled a piece of flesh from the pit with a harsh, ripe crack.

“Nothing in particular,” he replied flatly, dragging his thumb along his lower lip.

“Then maybe try to keep the freak parade to a minimum,” Stiles sneered, his fingertips biting into his biceps. “The rest of us are trying to get something done.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Peter grinned slowly, sucked the sweet juice from his thumb. Stiles flushed, jerking the sleeves of his hoodie down to his wrists self-consciously and scrubbing at one of his forearms, and Peter was briefly overcome with a hazy memory of running his tongue over smooth, heated skin.

“Then by all means,” he replied, making a small, sweeping gesture with his free hand. “Accomplish something.”

At that point Peter decided that he was lucky looks alone couldn’t kill.

He didn’t know why the kid was so pissed. Certainly he hadn’t done anything so terrible while he was… _incapacitated_ , that it warranted anger - he wouldn’t have been patched up if that were the case - and while their little spat at the smoothie shop hadn’t exactly been friendly it was far from the worst thing Peter had ever done. So no, the anger he didn’t quite understand. Nervousness, anxiety, uncertainty - those things he understood, appreciated even. The hesitancy was sweet, pleased him immensely because he enjoyed making Stiles squirm, enjoyed the clear discomfort marked by the way he suddenly seemed incapable of standing still.

“The point guys?” Scott said hesitantly, putting very little fire into his attempt to redirect the pack.

Still flashing his eyes in Peter’s direction, Derek picked up the Alpha’s slack once again. “The point is that we don’t know what this thing is or what it wants yet. That makes it dangerous.” Turning to Lydia and Stiles, he frowned and lowered his eyebrows. “Have you guys found anything on the symbol yet?”

“Nothing,” Stiles answered grimly, and Lydia shook her head. “It’s not in any of the bestiaries, and it’s not something I’ve ever seen.”

“I haven’t found anything either,” the Banshee added, looking particularly annoyed by that fact. “It’s not Latin or Egyptian, and it’s not from any of the South American countries.”

“Keep looking,” Derek sighed, and then he was leveling an Alpha-worthy glare at the three others piled up together on the couch, paying more attention to each other than what was going on around them. “And you three. _Stay_. _Together_. Don’t go running off looking for this thing. If you see something or you find something, call the rest of us.”

Solemn nods all around.

“All right then.”

And that was it.

The great plan, the oh-so-important pack-meet.

Pointless.

They could have done this over the phone, been told that they knew nothing. God forbid his nephew fire up a laptop for once in his life and learn how to run a conference call. 

But he was trying and that was more than Peter could say for Scott.

Something to think about he supposed, and a situation to be remedied sooner rather than later, if at all possible.

Watching as the tension drained from the room and things began to settle into a more neutral field of interaction, Peter waited until the rest had risen and trailed out to the living room where the TV immediately came on before he moved, until Lydia and Kira sat down at the coffee table and bottles of nail polish appeared while the boys broke out an Xbox and booted up a game. Standing slowly, careful to disguise the twinge of pain in his side that still plagued him, he strolled past into the kitchen to deposit the scraps of his mango into the trash bin, rinsing his hands under faucet.

Foregoing immediate departure in favor of satisfying his curiosity, he approached the dining table where there were plans and blue prints spread out in a haphazard mess that screamed Stilinski, empty plastic coffee cups leaving ringed stains on pages of notebook paper and highlighters rolling freely. Half of them had clearly migrated there from their place in the cabinets and safes at the back of the house, the other from an undisclosed, secure location within the Sheriff’s residence.

Apparently Stiles had been spending quite a bit of time working here at the Hale House.

Which he’d known, but…

Eyes flashing, a low growl rolled up out of Peter’s chest, his claws biting into the edge of the table as he leaned forward over the papers.

“What’s your actual problem today dude?”

Refusing to so much as flinch when Stiles crept up behind him, Peter reined in his wolf, the sudden, hot rush of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ … 

“I suppose I could ask you the same question, Mr. Stilinski,” Peter hummed, reaching out to draw some papers across the table towards himself, shuffling through to a rough sketching of a pair of runs, copies of those they’d found carved into the trees along the southern edge of the Preserve. “So angry, so very dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles hissed, and without looking Peter was sure that he was subconsciously baring his teeth. “Seriously?” From the corner of his eye he saw Stiles scoff, cross his arms over his chest, and his discomfort calmed Peter, put the edge of a smirk on his face.

“And so what if I am pissed?” he sneered. “Can you blame me?”

“Yes,” Peter replied flatly.

“Oh so after finding you passed out in a puddle of your own blood, throwing myself between you and the wonder-Alpha, being threatened in the middle of a tea shop, _and_ being licked like a Stiles-flavored lollipop, I’m not allowed to be a little upset?

“You’re entitled to your own reactions I suppose,” Peter replied distractedly as he traced the lines of a rune with the tip of a claw. He’d thought he’d seen it somewhere before, felt vague warning bells chime somewhere in the back of his mind, loudly enough that he didn’t react to the bait Stiles had laid out.

Licking, lollipops...

Shaking his head, Peter cursed under his breath.

“You’re also entitled to get over it,” he snapped, a little too defensively to his own ears. Ignoring the burst of spluttering and protests his response incited, Peter dug his phone from the pocket of his jeans and snapped a few close-ups of the sketches. “Why look at Ms. Martin. She hates me even more than you do, and yet she’s been courteous, receptive to courtesy…”

“Yeah ok, Dr. Lecter,” Stiles snarled between gritted teeth. “You bribed her with a pair of shoes!”

“I’d be happy to send you a pair as well, if you'd like,” Peter purred, looking up from where’d he been texting his pictures off into the ether to drag his eyes over Stiles’ body. “Of course I’d want photos in return, at the very least.”

Stiles’ heartbeat jumped, pink flushing high on the crest of his cheekbones.

“You’re such a skeezy perv,” he bit out, eyes narrowed, and Peter shrugged, straightened and moved toward the door.

“Would you have me any other way?”

Slamming the front door a little harder than was necessary, he dropped down the porch steps and went straight to his bike, climbed on and kicked it to life.

He knew better of course; knew better than to provoke, to play into this game that was wreaking havoc in his battered, riled instincts, but that warm, embarrassed blush, the stuttering pulse, the cinnamon-spice so faint in the air that Peter wasn’t even sure that it was real… all of it... made it practically impossible for him to resist.

His control was slipping, and he didn’t like it.


	13. Chapter 13

It was took less than two days to get a response to his text messages - the perks of having friends in low places.

Not that the response was any kind of good news - the symbols cut into the trees of the Preserve were the mark of a Rubious - a rare and distant cousin to the Incubus and the Succubus. They were a bit less picky about sexual status than their lascivious brethren, but just as adamant in other purities, feeding on the energy of emotion and the will of their host, ravenous for unadulterated souls who stood fast in their convictions. Strength in determination, commitment to the path, all that happy, new-age bullshit.

God knows what one was doing in Beacon Hills.

This town was a cesspool - secrets and shadows that started in the rose-bed mulch of human suburbia and tunneled their way to the deepest Nemeton-roots of the supernatural.

Hell, Peter _loved it_.

But back to the problem at hand.

As good as his contacts were, it turned out they were help to him, either in how to find the damned thing or to kill it, which, he assumed, would be his nephew’s preferred method of dealing with the creature. No doubt Scotty-boy would put up a whiny defense, at least until one of his pack mates got seriously injured. Then they’d all come running to him and he’d suddenly be the one responsible for cleaning up the mess.

Slapping the hard cover he’d been skimming closed, Peter rumbled irritably, less from the book’s lack of useful information and more because of the disaster looming on the horizon. Always something with this town, and only yesterday Derek had sent him a head’s up that the ex-Kanima and the blonde idiot with the scarves were both coming back from Europe or wherever the hell they’d been.

Just what he needed - two more entitled little asshole teenagers running around, barely on the cusp of legal adulthood and still certain that they knew better just because they’d had to grow up too fast.

Like they were the only ones in the world who’d ever had a rough life.

If it had been him? If he had been their Alpha, he’d have grabbed them both by the throat and snarled them into subservience. Disloyalty amongst pack, _real_ disloyalty - not the bullshit smokescreen he’d put up with Kate but the kind of filthy trick that Scott had pulled by forcing Derek’s teeth into Gerard Argent’s wrist - that was something that rankled like needles beneath his skin. That was half the reason he hated Scott McCall, and that was something that he would never forgive.

And no beta of his would have gone running off halfway around the world with their tail between their legs over a female - hunter, banshee, or otherwise.

Though he supposed it showed both intelligence and cunning on Lydia’s part to have finally convinced Derek and Scott to bring them both back here, even if her reasons were a modicum less than selfless. They’d lost so many in the last few years, their pack structure becoming a tangled web hardly held together at all anymore... two more betas, each of Derek’s making, would strengthen those ties, hammer things back into shape.

And it would push Scott just two more paces towards being the odd man out.

Now suddenly seemed like a very opportune time to begin setting the stage for what he hoped would be a very rewarding and very necessary power shift for the wolves of Beacon Hills.

Unfortunately his direct involvement was the quickest and most efficient way of bringing everything he intended to set in motion to a grinding halt. 

No matter; he was accustomed to that by now.

Working behind the scenes was one of his strengths - all he needed was a handful of pawns.

Trailing his fingers lovingly along the spines of his books as he walked the shelves, a slow, amused grin touched Peter’s mouth as he was reminded of the chessboard that Stiles had set up once upon a time, the players flagged with brightly colored sticky notes. He couldn’t remember when he’d found the time to study the board between the chaos wrought by the Nogitsune and its frantic, angry disassembly at Stiles’ hands, but it had tickled him that his nephew’s name had been on the king.

The most useless piece on the board, the most vulnerable, and yet still the most valuable… in its own way.

And Peter?

Well.

He’d never thought of himself as a queen before, but he had to admit, he’d been flattered.

He’d found it telling too that Stiles had not been on the board at all, that he’d removed himself from play even before his possession had fully taken hold. He wouldn’t be so lucky this time - he was the lynchpin to Peter’s plans, lynchpin to the pack, the smart one, clever one, _holdthemalltogethermakeitwork_ …

Rumbling deep in his chest, Peter blinked, curled his raised hand into a fist so tight that his claws pierced the flesh of his palm.

Damn it!

Taking a deep, steadying breath his stretched his fingers out flat, counted his own heartbeats until his claws receded and the sudden flood of too sharp, too bright smells and sounds dimmed.

Christ, he was hungry again.

Not for produce either, but something young and quick and loud when he sank in his teeth…

Chuffing with annoyance, Peter lapped the pinpricks of blood from his palm and grabbed a book from the shelf, a thick, dusty hardcover, carrying it over to his dining table and dropping it with a loud _thunk_. A mistake, since the resultant explosion of pollen and dust motes almost sent him into a sneezing jag. Shaking his head like a dog getting water out of its ears, he scratched irritably at his neck just behind his ear before he finally settled, sitting down to wrap the book up neatly in brown paper. He’d printed out some screen shots from his phone - the runes carved in the Preserve and those carved into trees half the world away - as well as a document he’d received by email naming the Rubious. There were a handful of sketches too, some handwritten notes; all of these things went into an envelope that got slipped into the package, the last seam sealed with clear tape.

He’d never done this before, the soft approach. Leaving gifts.

At least not with Stiles.

He considered dropping the thing into the Stilinski mailbox anonymously, but that defeated the purpose, and he was afraid that after his threat to send the boy a pair of heels, signing his name would just get the book dumped straight into the nearest trash bin.

Something more subtle then, something… enticing.

Because while he had a great deal of confidence in Stiles’ research abilities and natural intelligence, this in itself, the book and the pictures, this wouldn’t be enough.

That was the point.

He was giving Stiles just enough for a good incentive, just enough to bring him sniffing around after more.

Peter did love a good dance.

****

XXX

He didn’t want it.

He wasn’t even close enough to see what it was, and he already knew that he didn’t want it.

Stiles suspected that whatever was in the little brown package on his doorstep had come from Peter Hale. He couldn’t prove it of course, not from behind the wheel of his Jeep two houses away from the drive, but it struck him as terribly reminiscent of the boxes he’d been ding-dong-ditching at the werewolf’s apartment in recent weeks.

He’d known Peter wasn’t exactly… _comfortable_ with Stiles leaving him things - the guy had made that pretty clear - and hell, he wasn’t exactly comfortable with it either. He didn’t understand the weird urge to make sure the guy was ok, make sure he was fed and ugh, not passed out in a puddle of his own dried blood, but their past few encounters hadn’t exactly been normal, not even what could pass for normal in Beacon Hills. Not with Peter licking him one minute and then practically wolfing out another, not with him flashing his eyes and rumbling like a damned freight train as though he was seeing and hearing things no one else was.

Something about him had been off ever since he’d gotten swiped saving Stiles’ life, and that was concerning, in more ways than one.

He didn’t think it Peter’s style to send him a bomb in a box.

Still, as he pulled into the drive and killed the engine, climbed slowly down out of the Jeep, he couldn’t help but flash back to that night so long ago when he’d pitched a Molotov cocktail at the guy. As far as shitty things to do went, setting Peter Hale on fire was probably one of the worst that Stiles could think of, even if the guy had been intent on murder. Looking back on it now, and as far out of danger as he could possibly hope for, he could concede to the fact that Peter hadn’t been in his right mind at the time, and it was difficult to place the blame on him for anything that had happened without feeling at least a little bit guilty.

Sure, he was a self-absorbed, snarky pain in the ass who gave off serious sex-offender vibes and disappeared when you needed him more often than not, but Stiles didn’t think that injudicious slaughter was in his makeup.

It was too evident in how thoroughly he planned attacks, how careful he was to keep his own precious self out of harm’s way. In how much he cared for Cora and the lengths he had been willing to go to get rid of Kate once and for all, to avenge his family against the last of the Argents who had wronged them so grievously.

So yeah.

Stiles guessed he didn’t… hate Peter as much as he used to.

Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted the guy leaving him things on his front porch, like a cat leaves dead mice.

And oh, god, didn’t that thought turn his stomach.

Picking up the package tentatively, he weighed on the flat of his palm, turned it to judge if anything inside went rolling.

Nothing.

It was solid and heavy, wrapped in plain brown paper and it wasn’t leaking at all, so he figured it was safe enough to take into the house where he could puke in privacy if it turned out to be a severed hand inside.

_Please don’t be a hand, please don’t be a hand, please don’t be a hand_ …

Placing the package on the dining table, Stiles sat down and took a closer look, searching for a name or a label. He supposed having Peter leave him something wasn’t the worst thing in the world - Peter at least was pack. He didn’t need some random witch or other creepy leaving him boxes of acidic slime or body parts. Though he wasn’t sure how getting said items from Peter instead would make it any better…

Stiles frowned.

No name, but on the underside of the thing there was a quote written in neat block letters, the ink dark against the paper, and if he didn’t recognize the script as belonging to the undead werewolf he would have guessed it to be him by the words.

_A man only learns in two ways; one by reading and the other by association with smarter people.  
\- _Will Rogers_._

Oh yeah, totally Peter.

But really, a vaudeville cowboy? Didn’t exactly put him at ease about what was inside, though his curiosity was definitely peaked.

Damn it.

Sighing, he resigned himself to opening the thing and went in search of a kitchen knife, using it to carefully slit the paper open. There was an envelope inside, which when spilled out onto the table revealed a bundled of printed emails and photocopies of pictures, a few sketches, some of which he recognized as ones he’d drawn himself. They were of the symbol that had been scratched into the trees out in the Preserve, and some from another place, and it all came crashing down on Stiles at once that this was information, valuable advice.

Scrambling, he ripped the rest of the paper away and found a heavy, hardcover book in his hands, the leather cover dry and cracked beneath his fingers. There was a page marked a third of the way through with a note card, and Stiles’ breath caught in his throat as he slowly cracked it open, paged carefully back to the note. It was e=blank but for one word, _Rubious_ , again written out in Peter’s neat hand, and a quick skim of the page told him that the topic would be well covered.

“So what’s the catch?” he asked, his voice loud in the empty house.

Peter never offered up information this soon, this easily. He waited, until they needed it, were desperate for it, until he was sure that he had something to gain by sharing.

And Peter never loaned his books.

Hell, he wouldn’t even let Stiles touch them.

But there was nothing, nothing else, no texts on his phone or demands penciled in invisible ink - and Stiles looked.

He half expected to turn around and find the guy looming behind him, or to go upstairs to his room and find the werewolf lounging against his pillows. 

Neither happened, and he couldn’t decide if he appreciated that or not.

A part of him had to wonder exactly Peter was playing at.

A part of him was just pleased.

It was kind of nice, doing it this way. Before anyone was dying and without the threats that both of them knew weren’t exactly feasible on his part, just routine.

It was kind of nice.

From his vantage point just outside the Stilinski home, Peter was just contented to see a smile on the kid’s face as he read.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter hated unexpected pack meets.

He hadn’t always, but somehow making time to traipse over to the rebuilt Hale House when he no longer lived there, when there were really only two Hales left in Beacon Hills just wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel like home anymore, didn’t feel like pack, not with their dwindling numbers and Scott’s near-unbearable apathy. The differences weighed on him as soon as he stepped through the doorway and so he avoided those reminders as much as possible.

Unfortunately for him, putting in an appearance at Wednesday brunches and Saturday afternoon bonding time on a regular basis was the easiest way to keep Scott and Derek both out of his business. They didn’t care about him, didn’t miss him, but when he went too long without checking in they started to get suspicious and that caused problems for everyone, him most of all.

So yes, he’d planned to show up that Saturday afternoon, but it was only Friday and by all rights he should’ve been granted one more day without the irritation that was rubbing shoulders with the town’s resident supernaturals. It didn’t help that he was in the middle of another bout of insomnia, bottoming out after three nights straight without an hour’s sleep, ever since he’d staked out the Stilinski home and watched Stiles read until well past midnight. His appetite was still raging at the most inconvenient of times, and there was a dull, low-level ache in his muscles that, coupled with the exhaustion, had begun to drag on him. The idea of dealing with Scott and his cavity-sweet Kitsune, the insufferable little beta he’d bitten made him want to pop his claws and slash at something.

So far he’d managed to keep his more homicidal tendencies to himself, but then again, he’d only been in the house for about three minutes.

“So I guess we’re dealing with a Rubious?” Scott said, raising his eyebrows and looking to Stiles for reassurance. No doubt he’d called the Alpha earlier that morning, filling him in with the copious notes he had managed to squeeze from the scant pages Peter had provided him with. 

“Never heard of it,” Liam jumped in first, his words wet and garbled around the massive wad of chewing gum in his mouth, and Peter rolled his eyes.

Really? A teenager who’d known about the supernatural for less than a year? Who would have guessed…

“I haven’t either,” Derek frowned and this time Peter sighed heavily, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It’s related to the incubus and the succubus,” Stiles said quickly, and Peter’s gaze snapped over to the young spark with suspicion, surprised that he had apparently felt the need to jump in, to come to his defense before Derek’s annoyance could be expressed any more violently than through his rather impressive bitchface.

“They’re into purity,” he continued, and now he was looking back at Peter with carefully guarded questions in his eyes, waiting for confirmation that he was explaining it right. “Clean thoughts, pure souls…”

“I’m guessing those aren’t in huge supply,” Lydia hummed, tapping a pen against the edge of the dining table they all ranged around. “Especially in Beacon Hills.”

“But it must have come here for a reason right?” Kira asked, leaning against Scott’s side with her arms twined around one of his, clutching more tightly than she appeared to. “Even if we completely disregard any of the possible religious aspects involved, a _pure_ soul…” 

“It’s more complicated than that,” Peter grumbled, knowing that by tossing his hat into the ring he was inviting the stares and the direct attention of all seven of them. “They feed on… honesty, commitment, _conviction_.” Glancing at Stiles, he licked his lips. “It’s about _belief_ , not reality. Perception.” Shifting uncomfortably, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back. “Unfortunately, children often prove to be… common targets.”

Across the table, Stiles’ face went white and Peter felt his stomach roll. That bit hadn’t been in the book, was something that Peter had put together himself, had strongly suspected and had confirmed through a bit more research and a few phone calls. It started a small uproar at the table, everyone jumping in to voice their own distress and indignation, but Stiles’ response was the only one he cared about. The fact that he had a dual motive - both to further intrigue and motivate the young man to seek him out for more information, and out of genuine concern for his emotional distress - only served, strangely enough, to make him nauseas.

“These things kill kids?” he asked in a calm, quiet voice that cut through the cacophony of the rest of the pack’s yowling, a question shot straight at him, cautious, gauging.

“Not only kids,” he conceded, “But typically yes. The younger the mind, the less tainted. And this isn’t murder, isn’t impulsive killing for pleasure. This is nature. This is feeding for survive, not choice.”

“It’s disgusting,” Scott sneered, and Peter turned on him with an ice blue glare.

Idiot.

Ruled by his heart not his head, indignant and passionate and emotional, unable or unwilling to listen - and he wasn’t sure which of the two was worse.

Accidents.

Pain.

That was what you got with an Alpha like Scott McCall.

The self-righteous little bastard didn’t disappoint.

“We’ve got to stop this thing,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet, looking out the glass patio doors toward the Preserve where the sun was just beginning to set behind the trees. “Now, before it kills anyone.”

Peter sighed.

And in three, two, one…

“How do we kill it?” Derek asked, and just as Peter had come to expect, all eyes turned to him.

“Why ask me?” he sniffed, and Scott growled, flashing his eyes.

“Because you know!” he snapped, his hands fisting at his sides. “You always know.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow.

“He’s got a point,” Derek muttered beside him, and Peter turned with an utter lack of surprise, forcing a hurt expression at his nephew’s ostensible betrayal.

“While I’m flattered by your confidence in my knowledge of anything and everything,” he replied caustically, “I’m not an encyclopedia. Perhaps out intrepid Alpha should reach out to his contacts in other packs with a formal request for information.”

Turning on Scott, he narrowed his eyes, sneered.

“Oh, wait…”

“Woah, ok, time out!” Stiles yelped, leaping up from his seat and slapping his palm against Scott’s chest, holding him back from where he’d taken a threatening step toward Peter.

Not one to be outdone, he rose to his own full height, shoulders back and feet spread. In terrible condition or not, he wasn’t about to let the little shit intimidate him - he might be an Alpha but God damn it, Peter had made him and he would damn well _unmake_ him, _spineless apathetic little_...

“… and I can do some more research. I think I might… have a source that can help.”

Blinking, Peter realized that he was still standing in a loose fighter’s stance, Derek’s fingers tight around his forearm in warning while Stiles had managed to get Scott back into his seat, calmed him with promises of doing all the work as was typical for the two of them.

But it was the way he was looking at Peter - confusion, wariness, concern - that gripped him by the throat, forced him to relax his muscles and roll his shoulders in order to shrug off his nephew’s restrictive touch.

Fine, let it go.

Walk away.

It wasn’t time yet. 

“… don’t want to wait until it starts attacking kids to take care of it,” Scott growled. “We track it, tonight. We don’t need to kill it, but we at least have to know where to find it.”

“I _really _think we need to wait,” Stiles said, voicing Peter’s opinion before he could himself. “At least until we have some more information. Maybe even until Jackson and Isaac get here.”__

__“They won’t be here until Tuesday Stiles!” Scott yelped, slashing a hand through the air. “No, we can’t wait that long.”_ _

__Getting to his feet again he puffed up his chest, let the unearned red seep into his eyes._ _

__“We do this now.”_ _

__Which was how Peter ended the night with four broken ribs and a mouthful of blood._ _

____

**XXX**

“All right dude, easy. I gotcha.”

One arm slung across Stiles’ shoulders, Peter staggered through the trees, barely supporting any of his own weight. He was making wet wheezing sounds at the back of his throat, choking on the blood that collected there as the spark dragged him back toward the Hale House as quickly as they could move, broken bones shifting and jarring as he stumbled against Stiles’ side.

“Almost there man,” the boy panted, straining beneath Peter’s bulk as he dragged him along, and some small part of his brain told him that Stiles was reassuring him, that there was fright, panic, _concern_ making his sweat acrid and bitter, like fresh tarmac.

He’d done it again tonight, stepped between Stiles and a threat, and he was really starting to regret that little pattern of behavior he’d picked up. His whole fucking body ached, and in his haste to get them back to safety Stiles wasn’t exactly being gentle.

At the very least he could soothe his battered pride by reminding himself that the night’s heroics hadn’t been planned.

They’d begun the evening’s activities by fanning out through the preserve until one of the wolves hit on a fresh track, Liam, surprisingly enough. The kid actually had a pretty good nose on him when he wasn’t distracted by a leaf skittering across his path. As the pack converged together Peter had felt a strange sort of electricity lift the hair on his arms, the back of his neck.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he’d muttered, his ingrained sense of self-preservation kicking in, and Stiles had agreed, arguing with Scott to turn back, but the Alpha had refused and so of course Stiles had followed along behind, against all his better judgment to protect his friend.

Another pattern of poor life choices.

But they’d all followed, snarling under their breath the whole way as they tracked the thing through the trees, deeper and deeper into the Preserve until they’d made it all the way across town and down into the salt marshes that hissed and spluttered with natural gasses that burned like fairy lights in the dark. The track had looped back on them and the feeling of wrongness intensified as they began circling the swamps, seemingly driving the Rubious up against the cliffs, but he hadn’t had time to analyze it.

They’d been outmaneuvered.

No scent, no sighting, no warning at all and they’d been flanked, something coming from the left and behind and hitting him so hard his vision went starry. Leaping to his feet he roared his fury, his hatred for what had put him where he was, ready to fight, but whatever had hit him moved so fast it seemed like a blur, nothing to tell him what it was or where to strike.

Of course, with his head still swimming, it was hard to say if it wasn’t his own senses that were failing.

The next thing he knew he was being slammed into the side of a tree, once, twice, three times, rib bones shattering inside his chest and driving splinters into one of his lungs, leaving him unable to breathe as blood began to fill his throat and pain swept over him. He was certain that he’d blacked out because the next thing he knew he was on his feet, shouting for the pack to get the hell out and shoving Stiles to the ground as a chill shadow came barreling towards them, slamming into Peter’s chest like a battering ram and sending him sailing into one of the deep marsh puddles.

Two and a half feet and he was only an inch from drowning in there.

Landing hard, what little breath he had was driven from his lungs as agony burst through his torso, and he automatically sucked in a breath to gain the leverage for a scream, but his mouth had flooded with slick, foul water instead, the gases that coated the surface of the water stinging his eyes, all the tiny nicks and cuts that opened his skin to the contaminates, the still-open wounds on his abdomen. Shoving himself to the surface, he’d dragged his body out of the water choking and spluttering, gasping for air on the bank of the little pond, scrabbling to get himself out, and then Stiles was grabbing him under the arms and dragging him to his feet, ignoring the pained sob that escaped him and hauling tail back toward the house, the snarls and shouting that signaled a fight echoing behind them. 

“Stop,” Peter choked, his knees giving out as the next wave of pain almost overwhelmed him. “Stiles…”

“We can’t, dude, you’re _smoking_ ,” he yelped.

Blinking, Peter looked down in the dark as his shoes slipped over rocks and brush, focused on the thin wisps of white coming off of his skin, his clothes. He’d thought it had just been his head swimming, or maybe fog, his body heat evaporating in the cool night air, but jumbled, disconnected thought put the pieces together along with the full-body sting and suggested there was more to it than that. Luckily for him, the lights of the house were gleaming up ahead and the next thing he knew Stiles was dragging him through the patio doors and down the hallway towards the bathroom.

“Get your clothes off,” he demanded, propping Peter up against the wall where he practically collapsed under the agony of the jarring thud, emitting a choked, breathless gasp as his broken ribs grated against each other. Baring his teeth against the pain he cast a glare in Stiles’ direction but the boy missed it, halfway inside the shower stall as he cranked on the water and tested it against his wrist. Satisfied, he turned back to Peter and frowned when he saw him still standing there, clutching his torso and panting for air.

“Shit man, you’re _white_ ,” he muttered. “Come on, we gotta get you out of these.”

Grabbing the bottom of his shirt, Stiles gently tugged him out of it before Peter even realized what was happening, and then his long, pale fingers were working Peter’s buckle and crouching to drag his jeans down over his hips.

“What are you doing?” he asked stupidly, his voice low and rough with pain as he grabbed at his belt, resisting its downward progress.

“Going shy on me now Creeperwolf?” Stiles asked, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes, but the quaver in his voice belied the joke, the scent of adrenaline only just beginning to wane as the bathroom began to fill with warm steam. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

And then he was untangling the denim from around Peter’s ankles and shoving him into the shower before he could manage a reply, the little smartass.

Narrowing his eyes at the shadow that moved beyond the frosted glass, Peter bit back the pain long enough to shuck his boxers and flung the sopping wet piece of material over the top of the stall, smirking at the yelp and the splat that followed it.

“How about now?”


	15. Chapter 15

This?

This had been a rough month.

Exhaling long and slow, supporting himself with both forearms pressed elbows to fingertips against the shower wall, Peter let his forehead dropped against it with a small thud, his whole body shaking. He let his mind go hazy for a bit, escaping the fire-ache, only half-listening as the rest of the pack clamored back into the house making a hideous and unnecessary racket. He wondered muzzily if he could goad the Banshee into scrubbing his back for him, or maybe sweet talk the Kitsune - just to get the stinging sensation to fade a little faster of course.

Probably could, if he put on a pair of shorts first.

He might even be able to guilt-trip Stiles into it.

But all of the above seemed to be more trouble than they were worth, and besides, the cool water seemed to be doing the job just fine as all manner of minute flora and fauna went sluicing off of him, mud swirling down the drain in streaks.

No, the strange desire had nothing to do with the sudden, cold emptiness he felt, the instinctual urge for physical contact with his less-than-agreeable packmates. The bone deep need for reaffirmation after a near-death experience, the residual fear of a near-drowning that left him trembling with want for protection, for comfort. At least that’s what he told himself. A part of him knew that all that was normal, healthy even, smoky memories of another pack reminding him of his wife, his brother-in-law, his cousin - all finding him after a job, an injury, a dressing-down by his Alpha for a mistake or a slip-up and piling on top of him, their combined weight holding him to the earth when he secretly feared he might float away.

On the other hand he found himself disgusted.

That was another life.

Peter wasn’t the same man he was back then, not really, and this new pack he found himself saddled with was hardly the type he would go to for anything approximating reassurance.

Hands balling into fists, Peter didn’t realize he was snarling until it was too late, coughing and choking violently until he spat up a matt of blood and god knows what else, stealing the breath from his lungs and sapping his strength as the process caused his broken ribs to shift and grind, renewing the vicious surges of pain all over again.

Yeah.

Rough month.

Christ, if he ever got himself back in top condition he was going to gut that worthless excuse of an Alpha - dragging them all into unnecessary danger for his own personal reasons - that’s not what an Alpha was!

Physically unable to maintain his fury, trembling under wave after wave of agony and exhaustion, Peter wrenched off the water and stumbled out of the shower, catching himself on the edge of the sink. Slashing a hand through the thin fog that coated the mirror glass, Peter stared at his reflection with a feeling of great detachment, noting without any feeling at all that he was as pale as a sheet, his chest and shoulders splashed with pink like a sunburn, mottled blue and purple blossoming beneath the skin of his torso.

Werewolf DNA wasn’t going to save him from a wicked bruise this time, though he could feel the warm, dull tingle of his healing kicking in, doing its best to get the process started.

Wrapping his arm around his ribs, gasping quietly as he squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers found the rough lines of stitches along his abdomen, weeks old at least, the claw marks no longer bloody or weeping but still open. He’d left the thread where it was, holding the edges of the wounds together with the hopes that it would speed the process, keep him from scarring, but thus far it didn’t seem to be working all that well.

He’d popped a few of those stitched tonight.

Staggering upright again, he was surprised to find that there was a neat stack of clothes waiting for him on the lid of the toilet seat - a pair of black sweatpants and a long-sleeved Henley that must have been filched form Derek’s dresser. Patting himself dry with a towel was enough to warn him that anything on his back or neck or shoulders was just going to irritate his sensitized skin, so after carefully propping himself against the sink and tugging on the sweats one foot at a time, he pitched the shirt up onto the counter and stepped out into the hall, startling badly as soon as he passed through the doorway.

Stiles was leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and a irritable frown on his face that faltered as soon as he looked up and met Peter’s gaze. Huge, dark eyes trailed slowly down over his torso, and then in an eerie pantomime of that first night, his hand raised of its own volition and the barest brush of trembling fingertips ghosted over Peter’s ribs, tracing the edges of the watercolor bruise and following the lines of the claw marks, making his abdominal muscles jump and his skin flicker.

Peter closed his eyes as a large, warm palm splayed around the curve of his side, the heat and gentle pressure a strange point of relief against the pain of his broken ribs, the lung that was slowly knitting itself back together inside his chest.

“Jesus Peter,” Stiles breathed. “I know you said you weren’t on your game right now, but this…”

“I’m fine,” he said, but it came out more like murmured reassurance than the dismissive grumble he’d meant it to be.

“Nope. No way,” Stiles denied, shaking his head and grabbing on to Peter’s wrist. “Come on, I’m taping those ribs. Whether you like it or not.”

“I said I’m fine,” he growled, but his feet followed after him regardless.

“Suck it up dude,” Stiles replied flippantly, turning on the lights in the war room and crossing the floor to fetch the first aid from the trunk in the corner. “Sit,” he demanded, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward one of the stools, and it was easier to comply than to do anything else.

Easing himself up onto the high chair, Peter closed his eyes and exhaled with a groan, leaning forward with hands braced against his knees, and he kept his eyes closed even when Stiles’ scent flooded his nose, when the boy stepped in to his side close enough that Peter could feel his body heat against his bare skin.

“Sit up, come on,” he murmured quietly, and then he was pressing Peter’s shoulder’s back, guiding him upright and lifting his arms.

Peter complied silently, lacing his fingers together over top of his head, clenching his jaw against the ache as Stiles wound a thick length of ace bandage around his ribs, the elastic keeping the compression tight but not unbearable. He felt exhausted, off, like he was sleep walking, but somehow it wasn’t so bad. Somehow he felt safe enough, here in the back of his nephew’ house, just to go with it, just to let himself drift.

“You tore your stitches,” Stiles said, but his voice came from far away, dull in Peter’s ears like his head had been wrapped in cotton too, and as he lowered his shaking arms to his sides he wavered on the stool, his groggy lack of balance almost sending him to the ground. 

“Woah, easy there big guy. Peter. Peter!”

Blinking, he righted himself with a jerk and sucked in a breath before he remembered why that was a really bad idea, doubling over and holding his ribs as a coughing jag wracked his tortured lungs. He could feel anxious hands holding him up, supporting his shoulders and petting his biceps awkwardly, until he was able to catch his breath again. Even then he couldn’t seem to find the strength to sit up, instead letting Stiles take his weight, his forehead pressed against the center of the boy’s chest as his eyes fluttered closed, taking in his scent with pained, shallow breaths. Stiles had frozen when Peter sagged against him but seemed to recover fairly quickly, curling one hand hesitantly around the side of his neck and threading the other lightly into his hair.

For a minute the world slowed down and all Peter knew was the quiet darkness, two rapid heartbeats and the terrible comfort of a hand on his throat, the physical contact he wanted so badly but wasn’t sure he deserved, wasn’t sure he should accept. Dragging together the scraps of his pride, his strength, he forced himself up again and out of Stiles’ hands, even though the wolf at the back of his mind raged at the loss. Forcing it down, he slid off the stool, used the edge of the table to find his balance again.

“You all right?”

Stiles’ voice was just a little uneven, and from the corner of his eye Peter could see the young man wipe his palms on the thighs of his jeans.

“I’m fine,” he said again, but his throat felt raw and the words were low and gruff and unconvincing.

“Right,” Stiles muttered, and then he nodded and repeated the sentiment, more firmly this time. “Let’s… go then, I guess. Scott wants to do a debrief, so…”

At the mention of the alpha’s name Peter rumbled, showed his teeth, and was surprised when a similarly displeased expression crossed Stiles’ face, but then he was just scowling, shrugging and pushing his way past Peter into the hallway.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered.

And that was interesting.

The pack quieted when the two of them entered the dining room, and Peter could feel all eyes on him as he crossed to a chair, eased himself down into it with a quiet groan. He had to pause halfway through but was able to get there eventually, his eyes closing briefly, and when he opened them again everyone was staring at him with reactions that ranged from sympathy to shrewd suspicion to irritation.

“All right?”

He knew that his nephew asked more out of obligation than true concern, but Peter supposed the beta’s question served a purpose either way. There was a dry trail of blood running from high on Derek's forehead down the side of his face and disappearing into his shirt collar, and he looked a little bit pale and woozy.

“Are you?”

Derek frowned but jerked his chin in affirmation, moved away from Peter to take his seat again. He didn’t blame him - there had been something in Peter’s voice that neither of them had liked, the barest ghost of the uncle that Derek had used to have. Stiles was watching closely, his eyes tracing the blood trail at Derek’s temple before flicking to Peter’s. Biting the inside of his cheek, he turned away from the pack, went to the refrigerator and began shuffling Tupperware containers, but Peter could feel the wrongness, the vulnerability that had come with letting his guard down just the slightest bit, and now he scrabbled frantically to shore it up again.

“What happened?” Scott demanded, and that did it, his tone immediately raising Peter’s hackles.

“What happened?” he sneered, a dark chuckle low in his throat. “What _happened_? What _happened_ is that _your_ bad decision endangered your entire pack and got your best two fighters injured.”

Scott’s eyes sparked and he opened his mouth to start his angry, self-righteous denials, but an eerie, chill sort of silence had ringed quickly round the table, Derek, Lydia, even Kira and Liam all going frightfully still. The young Alpha seemed to sense this, his eyes sparking as he looked around the table in disbelief before stabbing a finger in Peter’s direction, ready to charge in on his own.

Peter didn’t give him the chance.

“That’s not what an Alpha is,” he sneered quietly, as though to himself, but the silence was thick enough that even the human in the kitchen could hear. “An Alpha does _not_ rush into a fight to serve his own purpose without thought for his pack or the consequences.”

“You’re the last person I’m gonna take lessons or advice from Peter,” Scott snarled, and he had to give him points for firing back with that one, because it was really his only ammunition. “Like you were so good at it? Biting people, killing them left and right…”

“I was insane,” Peter said sweetly, no longer capable of being goaded by taunts of his past. There was no guilt that could be put on him by others greater than what he already placed on himself. He regretted few things in his life, but biting Scott McCall was one of them, second only to Laura. “What’s your excuse?”

“My excuse?! That thing is out there killing! Killing kids!”

“No it’s not,” Peter scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “No reports, no murders, no abductions. It hasn’t done anything yet but rattle your cage, and it did a damn good job of it.”

“It didn’t…”

“Bullshit,” he muttered. “You ran out there without thinking it through, without considering the angles, disregarding your best strategist’s opinion…”

In the kitchen Stiles went still at the counter, hands stuttering over bottles and containers, and his cheeks pinked as Peter jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the spark.

“You should have waited,” he concluded.

Uninterested in whatever outburst was about to follow his little declaration, Peter settled back and closed his eyes as another wave of exhaustion washed over him. Dizzy, his throat raw and with a slowly developing migraine, he focused on his breathing and attempted not to think about how close he’d come to needing his resurrection contingencies again tonight. Tried not to think about the water pouring down his throat, suffocating him, the warm singe of the gases in the swamp.

Drowning felt remarkably similar to burning.

“… not important right now,” Stiles voice said, and it was a lot closer than Peter remembered, and he felt himself sway unconsciously toward the sound.

Snapping out a hand, he caught Stiles by the wrist as the boy set a plate down on the table in front of him, the gentle clink alerting him to his position before he opened his eyes, but unlike the last time his grip was light, careful. Letting out a shaky breath, he flinched when he felt Stiles’ free hand wrap over the curve of his shoulder, around the back of his neck, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into his grip.

“Still good?” he asked, and Peter swallowed, nodded reluctantly because it made the boy let go.

He had to force himself to do the same.

He could feel the others watching the interaction, could feel no small measure of surprise and suspicion being directed his way, but he couldn’t care. He felt like he was about to collapse in on himself, pass out where he sat, and he just could not care. Blinking dumbly, he only half listened as Stiles sat down and began to explain how something had flanked them as they had tracked the Rubious, come in from the side to ambush them. Peter suspected that it was a second entity, either another Rubious or something else entirely, and Stiles clearly suspected the same, though he was unable to describe what had attacked them down in the swamps. Unable to contribute himself on that front, Peter stayed silent. 

He was a bit surprised to find a sandwich sitting in front of him when he refocused, not quite sure where it had come from or how it had gotten there, but after a few minutes the misfirings in his brain connected the dots. Thick and toasted, stuffed with rare slices of roast beef and horseradish sauce, Stiles hadn’t put together any more, not for himself or anyone else, though he’d left all the ingredients out on the counter. Kira and Liam both had gone into the kitchen, constructing their own sandwiches while watching on silently with wide, anxious eyes as Stiles worked to… what, _soothe_ Scott? That didn’t seem right, his tone was too harsh for that, too argumentative, but at the same time Peter could tell that he was holding back. 

Deciding that he’d said enough for one night, too tired to work himself up to a full fight when patience would serve him better, Peter sank his teeth into his sandwich, sat back, and tuned out.


	16. Chapter 16

This had to stop.

This whole… save Stiles thing. 

Granted, it was nice not to die or be horribly maimed by some unknown beastie’s claws, but he didn’t know how to react to it, didn’t understand it. Peter was the king of self-preservation, and tonight made the second time that he’d taken a pretty big hit in Stiles’ place. It wasn’t like the werewolf to be helpful or selfless; two saves and the book together were hard to reconcile.

Still, he hadn’t thought twice about dragging Peter up the bank of the swamp, choking and retching up filthy water with wet, wheezing sounds that made his own chest ache. His heart had already been pounding beneath his ribs, adrenaline shot through his veins as he looked desperately to see what it was that had slammed the werewolf against a tree trunk like a ragdoll. Whatever it was had moved too fast, danced between the shadows before he could chase it with the beam of his flashlight. Shouting and snarling and a strange, swishing sound had filled the air and Stiles was smart enough to know when tactical retreat was the only option, so he hauled Peter up, ignored the pained yelp and broken growl the movement earned him, and beat feet back to the Hale House.

In the hallway, listening to the sound of the shower on the other side of the bathroom door, he’d had a few minutes to think about what had just happened. He was pretty sure he should be focused on the attack, worried about how there seemed to be more than one thing out there, about how it had engaged him and his friends so easily and so viciously without them being any the wiser. Sure that he should be pissed more than anything, angry with Scott for his impulsive idiocy, for not listening to him when he’s said they should wait, for more information, for reinforcements. Instead his thoughts were stuck on the haunted merry-go-round that was everything wrong with Peter these days - the weird wolf-out and the unconscious cuddles in his apartment, the growly encounter at the teashop, and then tonight, the quiet admission that he wasn’t even close to fighting condition despite his insistence that he’d been healing from whatever it was that had almost gutted him a couple of weeks ago.

And perhaps most concerning, Stiles was actually worried about the guy.

He’d gotten the shit kicked out of him tonight, and even if he’d managed a lascivious innuendo before sling-shotting Stiles with his wet boxers, he absolutely wasn’t himself.

Seeing him step out into the hallway pale and bruised like spilled ink… it made his stomach tighten.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself from touching. His fingers had traced the edges of the blue and the purple and the black, felt Peter’s belly jump beneath his touch, and then he’d smoothed his palm around the curve of the werewolf’s ribs like he could turn his own veins dark and pull out the hurt. It occurred to him that he couldn’t, not that way, even as he breathed his disbelief and Peter denied the severity of the injuries in a pained, quiet murmur, and it was that tone that made him want to do something, to fix him. Not snarky or deadly sweet, not coldly calm. Just… young. Young and weary and shaky. 

He’d taped the man’s ribs even though he shouldn’t have to, was shocked not only that the stitches still marked Peter’s side but that the claw marks were still open, the skin still torn. Better, so much better than the last time he’d seen them, infected, swollen, and bleeding badly, but so much worse than they should be.

He’d meant to confront the werewolf about it, intended to ask him about what he’d meant when he said that he wasn’t his best, but the evidence was strong and clear before him. When Peter had lurched drunkenly to the side, almost toppling right off his stool, Stiles hadn’t thought to do anything more than catch him, take as much of his weight as he could. He didn’t respond to Stiles’ calling his name, like he hadn’t heard him at all, and when he didn’t immediately pull back from Stiles’ touch he hadn’t known what to do. The werewolf had leaned heavily on him, buried his face into Stiles’ chest, and if he didn’t know better he might’ve thought Peter whimpered.

He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He’d gone from supporting the older man’s shoulders to running his fingers anxiously down over his upper arms, the swell of his biceps - and he’d deny appreciating that till his dying day. He’d gone into a coughing jag that seemed to just take everything out of him, that had Stiles wincing it sounded so painful, and then he’d just sagged in Stiles’ arms like he’d given up, given up on everything.

That had scared him.

He’d never seen anything like that from Peter, certainly couldn’t compare it to the non-verbal wolf that had curled possessively on top of his lap and fallen asleep.

Not sure if it would be welcome or not, Stiles had placed one hand lightly on Peter’s neck, the other in his hair, and it was strange and awkward and a little bit uncomfortable, but it felt right too, which in itself was weird. It didn’t’ seem to matter in that moment though - Peter had rubbed his cheek against Stiles’ hoodie and he’d been shaking, trembling against him until he pulled himself together and pulled back and that had shattered the quiet moment so thoroughly it was almost as if it had never happened.

The Peter that sat himself down in the dining room was much more the Peter he knew. Even pale and drawn, wavering in his chair, he’d still been all bark backed up with vicious bite. He’d called Scott out in front of everyone, echoed a lot of the sentiments that Stiles was beginning to feel himself, but the way he’d talked about what an Alpha was, what an Alpha was meant to be… Stiles could tell he hadn’t been talking about himself. Curiosity and yeah, a little bit of pity, a little bit of guilt had warmed in his belly, especially when Peter had praised his strategy and his opinion, but then Scott had thrown a hit way below the belt and guilt had turned to anger as he found himself wanting badly to come to the older Hale’s defense.

He didn’t know when that had happened, when he had conceded to himself that yeah, Peter had been out of his mind when they’d first met and no, he couldn’t fairly be held responsible for what he’d done. If he had to do it again he would probably still throw that Molotov cocktail because he’d had no other choice, but he wouldn’t be so smugly satisfied about it.

But Peter hadn’t needed any help, at least on that front, and he’d done what Peter did best, turned the tables as snarkily as possible and then got himself out of the line of fire, sitting back and closing his eyes, but even from the kitchen counter Stiles had been able to see the minute hitch in his every breath, the tautness across his shoulders. He hadn’t even thought about it but he found himself dropping a sandwich in front of him, built from the leftover roast he’d cooked at a pack dinner three nights before. The werewolf had told him to stop, told him not to feed him anymore but it seemed that Stiles couldn’t help doing it. It made him nervous that Peter was so adamant, made him wonder if there was some kind of significance to the act that he didn’t know about, but tonight it didn’t matter.

Tonight the werewolf was pale and trembling with pain, and maybe even a little afraid.

Stiles wasn’t too proud to admit that he had been too.

When Peter had landed in that puddle and hadn’t come right back up, when he’d finally dragged himself out, belly-crawling up the bank, coughing and choking…

He was pretty Peter had almost died tonight.

Stiles knew what that felt like.

So he’d given the guy a sandwich and hadn’t flinched when Peter had grabbed his wrist, hadn’t sneered or pulled away when gentle fingers caressed his pulse point, and that was really the only word for it, _caressed_.

He’d wrapped his hand around the back of Peter’s neck anyway, surprised and yes, a little intrigued by the way he leaned heavily into the gesture, relaxed beneath his touch. He’d nodded when Stiles asked if he was ok but seemed reluctant to let go of him or be let go of. Still, he sat back quietly while Stiles took his seat at the other side of the table, ate his sandwich without cajoling or complaint. Two minutes later and he was practically asleep sitting up, and Stiles didn’t blame him. He was ready to go home and crash himself, tired in body and spirit. As much as he loved Scott like a brother, Peter had had a point.

Being a True Alpha didn’t make him a good one.

He did everything Peter had accused him of, rushed in to the fray without thought for the consequences, didn’t even try to find a way to minimize potential damage. He hadn’t listened to Peter - which, ok, understandable - but he hadn’t listened to Stiles either which was significantly less so. He’d edged around that, hinted that he was less than pleased with the night’s results and Scott’s decision - Derek had been hurt and Peter practically taken out of commission, any kind of cover or anonymity they’d had blown, but the Alpha had been riled by Peter’s words and was on the defensive, unwilling to listen or concede to anything.

And Stiles was done.

Just… done.

Lydia, who’d given him a ride earlier that night while Roscoe was in the shop, seemed to sense this and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she gave him a pointed look before nodding in Peter’s direction. Surprised but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, he stood and crossed to the older werewolf’s side, paused next to him without the pretense of doing anything but what he was about to do.

“Come on dude,” he said, ignoring Scott’s narrowed gaze, Derek’s raised eyebrows. “Me an’ Lydia will drop you at your place.”

“You sure?” Derek asked, flicking a glance at Lydia but watching Stiles in a way that made him want to stick out his tongue. “He can stay here.”

“Not staying here,” Peter muttered petulantly, but being half asleep cut most of the venom from the sentiment.

“Nah man, it’s fine,” Stiles replied, “It’s on the way. No biggie.” Tapping Peter’s shoulder with a closed fist, the mockery of a punch so gentle it wouldn’t jar the wolf’s broken ribs, he waited till Peter’s blue eyes met his and cleared just a little before he spoke again. “Let’s go.”

Sighing as though he were being terribly put-upon Peter levered himself carefully out of the chair and to his feet, wobbly and off-balance, his face going white before he was even fully upright. Stiles made to help, offer his arm or something but Peter huffed and brushed him off, grumbling as he shuffled down the hall after Lydia on bare feet.

It was almost kind of… cute.

“Stiles. _Stiles_!”

“What?” he asked flatly, trying to contain his annoyance with being snapped at. Scott was standing beside him now and reached out to grab his upper arm, as if to draw him closer, but his grip was a little too tight and Stiles wasn’t in the mood. Jerking his arm away he scowled at the other boy, who looked confused and hurt more than anything.

“What the hell man?” he hissed, like it did him any good to lower his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Going home,” he deadpanned.

“That’s not what I meant,” Scott snarled lowly. “I meant with Peter. Going to his apartment, feeding him, _showering_ with him. What the hell, has he been brainwashing you?”

And oh, if that didn’t piss him right off.

“No, asshole!” Stiles snarled. “He’s been fucking _saving_ me! So excuse me if I damn well make sure the guy gets home to sleep off the broken ribs and the near-drowning he took for me tonight!”

Fed up with his friend, pushed to the edge by his accusations and ignoring the fact that he was offended because maybe Scott had come close to touching a nerve, Stiles turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway, stepping out onto the porch and slamming the door behind him. Slumping back against it with a thud, eyes closed, he let out a shaky breath and tried to gather his thoughts, an attempt he quickly gave up in in favor of just going with the flow for the rest of the night, at least until he made it to his bed.

Pushing off the door, he straightened up and trotted down the porch steps, stumbling to a halt when he found Peter standing in the grass at the edge of the drive, arms crossed low over his belly and face tipped up to a waxing half-moon. Glancing past, he saw Lydia seated behind the wheel of her idling little Prius, the mirror flipped down as she touched up her Mascara in the light of the dashboard. Two in the morning and she was putting on makeup.

Taking two cautious steps forward, bringing himself level with Peter’s side, he looked between the werewolf’s shuttered face and the night sky, wondered what he saw there.

“You ok?” he asked, and Peter’s arms tightened around his torso.

“Cold,” he mumbled, and it was sleepy and childish in a way that didn’t fit with Peter.

Huffing, Stiles rolled his eyes, shucked out of his hoodie, stuffing Peter into it before he could analyze the gesture. The wolf was soft and pliant beneath his hands, allowing himself to be manipulated into the sweatshirt without resistance. Zipping the dark maroon fabric halfway up his chest so that just a hint of stark, white bandage peeked out, Stiles shivered in the cold, but Peter was tugging the sleeves down over his hands and pulling the hood up around his ears, toying idly with the white laces and he just could not even…

Striding off toward the car, Stiles muttered nonsense to himself, so ready for this night to be over.

Stupid werewolves, with their stupid mixed signals and their stupid… faces!

What was his life?

Climbing into the back seat, he jumped when Peter climbed in right behind him, forcing him across the bench seat toward the other door. Lydia caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, raised her delicate brows, but all Stiles could do was raise his hands and scoot.

How the hell should he know?

He supposed he should just appreciate that Peter had the presence of mind to close the door after him. 

Sighing as Lydia put the car into gear and backed down the gravel drive away from the house, he briefly closed his eyes and tried to let go of the anger, the irritation that made his fingers tingle. With her in the front seat and Peter making huffing, growly sounds beside him that sounded a lot like his inner wolf had a few weeks ago, Stiles decided his best bet was to just keep his eyes on the window, watch the trees of the Preserve thin until Lydia had pulled back out onto the road and turned toward the far side of town.

“So tell me what you really wanted to say to Scott,” Lydia demanded, breaking the silence and going for the throat in true Lydia fashion.

“What else is there to say?” Stiles muttered, still staring resolutely through the glass even though he could feel her darting glances at him in the mirror. “Peter was right - Scott made a bad call. It wasn’t his first one either. He might be an Alpha now but you and I both know he never wanted to be a werewolf in the first place. He still doesn’t.”

“There’s nothing any of us can do about that,” she said, choosing neither to agree nor disagree with the rest.

“No, there’s not,” Stiles conceded, “But it’s holding him back. He’s not stepping up, at least, not the way we need him too. And after tonight, I’m not sure he could if he wanted to. Hell, half the time it’s like Derek is still our Alpha…”

“Which is getting him hurt.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. Tonight wasn’t the first time Derek had taken a beating trying to take charge - without the Alpha spark he used to have, he just couldn’t pull off the same moves.

Glancing over at Peter, whose head was nodding toward his chest as he tried to stay awake, Stiles frowned at the implications tonight might come to have, the sudden doubt that had grown so strong in his chest about Scott’s abilities to be who the pack needed him to be. Better than they’d been those first few years, this still wasn’t their best, their numbers dwindling and their bonds weak. Yeah, they had breakfast on Wednesdays and attempted bonding on Saturdays, but even those get-togethers often seemed pale and colorless compared to what Stiles thought they should be.

And at the head of it all there were Scott and Derek, one an Alpha who didn’t want to be and one who did but wasn’t.

“Not an Alpha,” Peter mumbled, and Stiles jumped, almost forgetting the werewolf beside him in his silence. His eyes were closed and his was hunkered down in Stiles’ hoodie, leaning further and further to the side like some kind of sleepy drunk. “Not like Tally.”

Stiles felt the car judder beneath them as Lydia took her foot off the gas, whipped around in her seat to stare at Peter but he felt it safe to say the werewolf didn’t notice. He’d fallen over completely now, eyes closed, slumped against Stiles’ side. Rubbing his face against Stiles’ shoulder, he frowned, wrinkled his nose and repeated the gesture before settling down.

“Not an Alpha,” he muttered again. “Should give it up. Not… safe without an alpha.”

And then he was asleep on Stiles’ shoulder, leaving Stiles to stare down at him wondering what the hell had just happened.


	17. Chapter 17

Oh lord, he shouldn’t be doing this.

He shouldn’t be showing up at Peter Hale’s apartment at jesus-god-o’clock in the morning unannounced to give the guy a ride.

The man had a car in addition to the big, shiny motorcycle he’d had to leave at Derek’s the night before, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have a way to get there if he even wanted to. His presence at pack bonding time was never guaranteed, and even when he was there he didn’t really participate, not that the others made any great strides to include him.

If Stiles was being honest with himself it was that more than Peter’s physical condition that had him packing up his jeep extra early (read 10:25 instead of 10:30) and heading in the opposite direction of the Hale House. The feeling he’d been left with after last night, some of the things that the groggy werewolf had said ringing in his ears, it seemed more important than ever that the pack get their asses in gear and pull themselves together. Be a real pack and, god forgive him for saying it _again_ , find a real Alpha.

The thought frightened him. Whether it meant that Scott was out or just in need of a serious attitude-adjustment Stiles wasn’t sure, but what worried him most was that he was more afraid of the consequences to come if they continued on the way they had been.

He didn’t know what to do, how to fix this, but he wondered if Peter did.

The night before… it was weird. The things he’d muttered were cryptic in typical Peter fashion, but the soft, sleepy tone in which he’d slurred them had prodded at the soft insides of Stiles’ belly, like he hadn’t had the slightest clue that he was talking at all, mumbling without thought. His sister’s nickname, hell, kill him, he’d been done. He’d just sounded so painfully young and hurt, so tender…

_That_ hadn’t been Peter-like at all.

He’d slept on Stiles’ shoulder for the rest of the ride, keeping himself curled up close against his side, and Stiles hadn’t been oblivious to the fact that he’d scented him strongly before nodding off. He and Lydia had shared several significant looks in the rearview mirror after that but stayed silent, until they’d pulled up in front of Peter’s building and it was time to get him up and out of the car.

Stiles had meant to walk him up. The wolf was just so freaking out of it, he’d half expected him to just go toppling out of the car onto the curb. Peter had frowned when Stiles had squeezed his shoulder, too hesitant to shake him with his clearly broken ribs, opening his eyes and immediately sitting upright hard and fast to get himself off of Stiles’ shoulder. His next move was to double over with a hiss of pain, fangs flashing as he grimaced in agony. He’d reached for him again, fingertips light on his shoulder again and trailing down his back as he followed Peter out of the backseat but the ache had cleared some of the cloudiness from his eyes and the man had brushed him off, shrugged out from beneath his hand with a rough growl and stumbled away on bare feet.

Stiles and Lydia had watched him disappear inside in utter silence, and while he couldn’t speak for the Banshee the knot in Stiles’ throat had almost choked him. The tension inside the car couldn’t have been cut with a knife and neither attempted to try - Lydia had dropped him off without a word to spend a restless night not knowing what was wrong or how to deal with a hurt and childishly sleepy Peter Hale, for more than one reason.

Now here he was, standing outside his door, debating whether he would prefer to face that Peter Hale or the untrustworthy wolf of questionable motives he’d come to know.

Unable to come to a determination, he bit the bullet and pushed inside, not bothering to knock and unnerved by the fact that the door hadn’t been locked at all.

“Peter!” he shouted, putting on a brash, half irritated voice that was more self-defense than anything. “Get up! We have to be at Derek’s in twenty minutes.”

The apartment was still, quiet, empty, but he wasn’t brave enough to walk back into the man’s bedroom, not after the last time he’d been gone in and ended up being held captive by a clingy, sub-verbal werewolf. Giving himself an out, he decided that he could wait five minutes before his anxiety got the better of him and drove him back to check on Peter anyway. Wandering over to the large shelves that lined the far wall of the living room, he thought back to the book that had been left on his doorstep and he wondered just what titles he might find set out in the open for perusal. He could hear low grumbles and shuffling about coming from the back of the apartment as he walked his fingers along leather and linen spines, read titles in English and Polish, recognized Russian and pretended he could read the others.

Nothing about witches or werewolves, though he wasn’t really surprised. Peter didn’t share much outside of sarcasm, hoarded knowledge and played his cards close to the vest, and before last week he wouldn’t even let Stiles near his books. If he had any that were worth something they were likely hidden away somewhere - Stiles wouldn’t put it beyond him to have some sort of pretentious, climate-controlled safety deposit box somewhere.

No, what did surprise him was what he did find, books on history and philosophy, architecture and archaeology and dinosaurs. There were a few on southern American indigenous peoples, some on marine biology, a battered, well-loved copy of The Godfather and even a handful of old Louis L’amour paperbacks. As hard as it was to imagine Peter relaxing at home instead of plotting or skulking around in dark corners, it was even harder to see him reading things so fundamentally different, so essentially useless to him. How could he use fictional cowboys or the mating habits of jelly fish to his advantage?

The answer was that he couldn’t, which meant this was purely pleasure reading, for the simple kind of enjoyment that Stiles got from an hour with his Xbox and a bag of Doritos.

Sighing, Stiles turned to shout again and almost jumped out of his skin when he found Peter hovering around just behind his shoulder, eyes blue and blank the way they’d been that day in the tea shop but staring at him like they could see his soul. The toothbrush hanging out of his mouth only did so much to counteract the electric jolt of fear that still bumped along his nerves with the werewolf so close, but then Peter leaned in, huffed a quick sniff in the vicinity of Stiles’ neck, and shuffled away again, apparently satisfied.

“What… even?” Stiles muttered, watching him go with his mouth hanging open in dumbfounded shock. “Peter!”

But the werewolf just slammed the bathroom door in his face.

“You’re a total ass, you know that right?” he called conversationally, listening to the water run and different things get tossed around. “Lost you’re freaking mind…”

Frowning, Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, tapped the toes of his sneakers against the hardwood.

“So hey, I never said,” he began awkwardly, feeling his cheeks heat as he stared down at the floor, embarrassed that for some reason he couldn’t say what he was about to say to Peter’s face, couldn’t say it without a closed door between them. “I mean, I never thanked you. You know, for the book. And the save.”

“So thank me.”

“Dammit!” he yelped, jumping around again to glare at Peter, who had silently appeared behind him once again, looking a little more alert and a little more put together this time despite the fact that he was standing in front of Stiles in the same black sweatpants from last night. His eyes traced over him quickly, ran the breadth of his chest - just to look for blood and bruises of course - but his view was obscured by the heavy white bandages wrapped around Peter’s ribs.

“Knock it off,” he warned, “Or I’m getting you a bell.”

Unfortunately the joke didn’t land, and Peter just raised a single, sardonic eyebrow, waiting.

Shit.

“Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure how Peter would respond to the gratitude, stiff and reluctant as it was -   
maybe brush him off, maybe laugh at him - but he wasn’t expecting him to tilt his head, look at him with a quiet face, no sarcasm, no calculation…

“You’re welcome.”

The surprise must have shown on his face because Peter frowned, his eyes flicking over Stiles’ shoulder toward the bookshelves behind him.

“I mean that.” 

And hell, Stiles believed him.

Opening his mouth again to say god only knows what, he was saved when Peter turned away, walked across the floor toward the dining table and took Stiles’ hoodie from the back of a chair, unseen until that moment. His hand came up automatically to take it but once again Peter surprised him, slipping in on and zipping it halfway up his chest, pulling the hood up high so that it hung down over half of his face. Grabbing a leather wallet from the counter, he stuffed both hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, looking for all the world like a sullen teenager who’d been forced to get up and around for school - Stiles could practically feel the petulant glare being leveled at him from behind the hoodie.

And no, he didn’t really want to think about why Peter had put his hoodie back on when he had a whole walk-in closet full of his own clothes washed and pressed and waiting, and _no_ , he didn’t want to think about the feelings that swamped him as he watched the werewolf do it.

“Well?” he asked in a voice that was still thick with pain and exhaustion, not even bothering to hide it, and Stiles blinked, startled out of his thoughts and caught staring. “Better call your Alpha Stiles,” he sneered. “You’re going to be late, and then what will he think, showing up with someone like me?”

Stiles frowned, pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time even as they stepped out of the apartment into the hallway, Peter locking up from the inside with no key in sight.

“Someone like you?” he repeated casually as he turned toward the elevators, sure he’d only said it to screw with him. Peter wasn’t exactly one for regret, or self-reflection. “You mean someone who’s saved my ass, several times in the last few weeks?”

“It’s a nice ass.”

Stiles stumbled, whipped around to find Peter’s gaze pointedly lower than his face, but when he glared the werewolf shrugged, stepped around him and kept walking.

“Well it’s good to know you’re feeling better,” he sniffed, but something about it hadn’t been Peter’s usual bravado and lascivious snark, and he was careful to stand against the opposite side of the elevator as they rode down.

For his part Peter didn’t seem bothered, ignored him easily the way he normally did, which was strangely comforting. He climbed into the front passenger seat of the newly-tuned up Jeep like it was his and Stiles was only there to chauffer him around, curling up against the door and leaning his head against the window glass with a grimace. Stiles had only ever gotten his ribs badly bruised, never broken, but he winced in sympathy when the werewolf curled his arms tightly around his middle, trying to relieve the pain with a little light pressure, and was careful to avoid as many potholes as he could.

They were halfway to Derek’s before either of them spoke.

“Turn,” Peter rumbled, a short, perfunctory command as he shifted in his seat.

Glancing at him once the Jeep had rolled to a full stop at the red light, Stiles noted with a vague annoyance that the werewolf’s eyes were still closed.

How did he even know where they were?

It didn’t matter - he’d turn anyways because his brain was just too tired to try and figure Peter out anymore right now.

“Any particular direction?”

“Left.”

Sighing heavily, Stiles put on his blinker and turned when the light changed, despite being in the wrong lane. Three minutes later Peter rapped on the window with his knuckles and jerked a thumb silently, directing Stiles into the drive-through of a little bakery tucked behind a gas station that he wasn’t sure he’d ever noticed before.

“What, you want coffee?” he asked, getting into line and rolling his window down, ignoring the damp chill of the rainy morning that blew in.

Peter didn’t answer, just flicked a black credit card at him between two fingers and leaning across him to place an order when they got to the speakers. Stiles felt a little bit cold when he accepted the bag of steak and egg burritos through the window - he couldn’t remember ever seeing Peter eat junk food - but when he handed them over the werewolf buried his face in the top of the bag and inhaled the spicy scent of salsa and peppers with relish. He offered him the large cinnamon macchiato and the bag of cherry fritter bites too but Peter just handed them right back, placing the coffee in Stiles’ cup-holder and depositing the doughnuts in his lap.

“Um. Thanks,” he said slowly, not sure if he was creeped out that Peter knew what kind of coffee he liked or not. It wasn’t like it was a secret - he drank enough coffee around the Hale House while he was researching that it was pretty common knowledge he liked it milky and sweet, more candy than coffee.

Then again, Peter wasn’t really the type to take note of other people.

When no response came he risked a glance to the side, only to find Peter stuffing his face ravenously, devouring burritos in four bites or less with teeth gone sharp and pointed. It made him wonder when the werewolf had last eaten, made his belly flood with warmth as he thought about the Tupperware in the back seat - all the ingredients he needed to build snacks and dinner for the pack later in the afternoon.

Resolutely pushing the feeling down, he turned the Jeep toward the Preserve and took a deliberately obnoxious slurp of his stupidly perfect macchiato.


	18. Chapter 18

Peter spent the morning in a daze, head foggy like he’d never really woken up from the dreams he couldn’t quite remember. Part of it was the pain of his broken ribs and bruised lungs, part of it was exhaustion, and a part of it was something else entirely, instincts more animal than man riding just below the surface of his skin. His higher thinking processes were dampened while scent, taste, and touch sharpened as he became alert to more important things around him, more important desires.

The soft, comfortable warmth of a hooded sweatshirt against his skin, counterpoint to pain and muffling the harsh light and sound assaulting him.

A heavy belly full of warm, spicy breakfast.

Stiles…

He smelled so right, even when his emotions spiked; anxiety, shock, even that little bit of allspice that he’d caught once before, there and gone so fast that he didn’t know if it was really arousal or not…

And he’d been good hadn’t he, good, good boy, given Peter a ride, let him grumble and point commands without complaint, thanked him for his help, even accepted the coffee and the pastries without the typical bitching and suspicion that normally accompanied any of Peter’s actions. Let him feed him, fuel him, even if it was only sugar and caffeine - it was the best he could do for now but he’d do better, be better, good, be good…

He kicked off his shoes before he got out of the Jeep. Didn’t need them, didn’t like them, wanted to run, feel the grass beneath his paws and the sun on his fur and blood on his tongue but the rest of them were there in the yard, pack-not-pack all staring and circling round. He flashed his eyes, bared his teeth but then Stiles was beside him, leaning into the car and pulling out bags and boxes as he cast him an unimpressed look. It was calming, settled his nerves, but then the Banshee, smart one, deadly one was coming down the walk to help, ignoring him studiously as she approached but she was more his, more theirs than she was the others’ so he caught her arm and pulled her in close, put his face in her neck. She went stiff and still beneath his touch and someone shouted but it was already done, proper greeting made. Huffing against her skin he let her go and walked away, into the house where it was cool and quiet and no one was around to scoff or sneer and flinch away from him, watch him like birds of prey.

The air inside was thick with wolf, Kitsune and Banshee too, a little bit like family and little more like wary. It was familiar-foreign territory, jangled at his nerves, and even though he recognized the open kitchen and the long, scarred table, knew vague memories of sliding down a banister long ago, everything was the same and all-together different.

Chuffing to himself, he was rather relieved when the rest came pouring in, all of them loud and rough and moving too much, but they were a distraction from dusty thoughts and it was easy enough to move quietly out of the way, find a dark corner at the top of the stairs where he could lean against the railings and watch the goings-on, all the jostling and noise, until they finally flooded back out again, through the glass doors and across the wide lawn toward the trees.

He might’ve stayed if the boy hadn’t moved toward him, looked up the stairs and called his name, gestured him down.

Dragging himself up with a bitten-back whimper of pain, sharp spikes of hurt making it hard to breathe, he followed none the less, down the stairs and out into the yard. The others were already playing hard, barking and roughhousing, rolling around like pups as they gamboled back and forth across the lawn. There was a ball being passed between them, small and darkly colored and for just a moment he made to lurch after it, his muscles tightening as his instincts pushed him to dart into the fray and steal away the prize, but it passed as quickly as it had come and he turned his nose up at the display, choosing instead to follow the pretty red-head’s example.

She was sitting demurely in a wooden lawn chair near the edge of the romping field, polishing her fingernails and observing the action, perfectly content on her own. He suspected she might prefer it that way but couldn’t care, flopped down beside her with a petulant grumble. It drew attention - the play came to a grinding halt as eyes narrowed in his direction but the Banshee didn’t react at all and so it didn’t matter. He thought about laying his chin on her knee to taunt them, mine, mine, ours not yours, better, closer, safer…

Then the boy shrugged and picked up a stick, dashed in between the others who were all frozen in place and stole the ball for himself, and then they weren’t looking at him anymore, the game resumed as they yipped indignantly and charged off after him.

Huffing irritably to himself, he shifted and leaned back heavily against the edge of her seat, pressing his side against her legs to watch the others. She was tense for just a moment but so was he, until she lifted her hand and threaded it lightly through his hair. It was brief and off-handed, barely there, but it had his shoulders going lax and a low, deep, purring sort of rumble bubbling up out of his chest. That was better, that was right, his earlier scent marking returned in a way that natural and normal and not at all forced, too late far better than not at all.

**XXX**

Lydia Martin didn’t like unknown variables. They were messy and erratic and they often led to problems, the type of problems that ended with screaming and sore throats. At one time Peter Hale had been the biggest unknown variable in her life, but she had worked long and hard to puzzle out that particular problem to her own satisfaction.

She wasn’t pleased to be back at square one.

Maybe not quite square one - she didn’t feel like she needed to go home and mix up a batch of wolfsbane punch or string of Molotov cocktails just yet - but if two and two didn’t start adding up to four soon, she would be taking steps.

Although she had to admit, she rather liked this version of Peter. He was helpful even if it that help was a little bit cryptic, and far less dramatically snarky, if only because he’d gone practically non-verbal half the time. He also seemed to have picked up a habit of throwing himself between Stiles Stilinski and fatal damage, and that was a habit that Lydia could appreciate.

The problem was, she didn’t know why he was doing it.

Oh, she knew that Peter had expressed an interest in Stiles before, but it had always seemed to be off the cuff teasing, a smart mouthed way of throwing him off his game just for kicks. Harmless enough, and she’d seen no reason to intervene - if those two idiots wanted to get their kicks snapping and snarking at each other who was she to interfere?

This was different.

Peter didn’t put himself in harm’s way, but he had, twice now. Once with the clawed thing they’d fought down at the warehouse, taking a slashing so bad that Stiles had called her to the werewolf’s apartment to stitch him up, and then again the night before when the Rubious had tossed him around like a ragdoll before dropping him into a pond to drown. It had been calculated, deliberate, intentionally putting himself between Stiles and an injury that could very well prove fatal to the pack human.

Even more concerning than that, something seemed to have its claws into Peter, and after their experience with the Nogitsune, Lydia was attentive to small, abrupt personality changes. Peter had been showing concerning periods of animalistic behavior, refusing to speak, becoming far more tactile than was typical for the aloof and suspicious werewolf. 

Not that that was a difficult thing to accomplish - the pack wasn’t quite falling apart around them but they were far off from it. Kira, Liam, and Scott were the closest, everyone else were just satellites. Lydia might not be a werewolf herself, but she could feel the weakness of their bonds, wanted desperately the safety and comfort she knew instinctively would come with having a real pack. She was doing her manipulative best to make that happen, convincing Scott and Derek both to assure Jackson and Isaac that they would be welcomed back into the Hale House. Two more wolves, betas both bitten by Derek, could only strengthen their chances against the monsters constantly being drawn into town by the power of the Nemeton, and for getting their act in gear.

Unfortunately, she had a feeling that there was going to be more to it than that, and apparently Peter agreed with her.

She would’ve thought it was just manipulation on his part if he hadn’t been so out of it. He’d crawled into the back of her car and snuggled up to Stiles like a puppy, mumbled and muttered more to himself than anyone else, and he’d fallen asleep so quickly after that that she had a hard time believing it was anything but his genuine opinion. His mentioning his sister had only served to drive that point home for Lydia - he never talked about his family.

As nice as it was to know that Peter shared her opinion, and despite the fact that she and Peter had come to their own understanding of each other, the Jekyll and Hyde routine he’d been pulling made her nervous.

Unknown variables…

That was the reason she headed down the walk toward Stiles’ jeep so quickly after they’d pulled in. She knew he was going to pick up Peter and bring him over for the day - he’d sent her a text that morning - but she’d been hesitant for him to do it alone. Yes, Peter had been cuddly and affectionate the night before, but he’d also growled and shrugged them off irritably before stalking up to his apartment. His behavior was unstable and unpredictable, and there was no telling how he would be. 

Case in point…

Stepping towards Stiles to help him unload his Tupperware, she only just managed not to jump when Peter’s hand suddenly curled around her forearm and he pulled her in close, pressing his body flush with hers and tucking his face into the curve of her in her neck, his mouth against her throat. Every movement was slow and careful, painfully gentle, and the warmth of his body should have been soothing as he inhaled her scent deep into his lungs. She knew that Peter was more comfortable with her and with Stiles than with anyone else but he’d never done anything like this, never openly scent marked either of them.

It surprised her, so much so that she froze beneath him, unable to do anything at all to either placate him of fend him off, but then he was chuffing breathily against her neck and letting her go, wandering off toward the house as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

Swallowing hard, tucking her hair back behind her ear with fingers that only just trembled, she straightened her shoulders and gathered up her wits, turning back to Stiles with a flippant swish of her skirt.

“You ok?” he asked quietly as he leaned in close to hand her a stack of plastic containers.

“Of course,” she replied airily. “But I’m not sure I can say the same for him.”

“Something’s wrong Lydia,” Stiles muttered, looking past her so that she turned, saw Peter disappear into the house and saw Scott approaching with a frown. “He’s being… I don’t even know.”

“We’ll talk later,” she promised, squeezing his wrist.

Turning, she shoved her burden into Scott’s arms before the other boy could even get his mouth open, cutting him off and letting him know in no uncertain terms that she would not be badgered by him.

“Carry these,” she demanded primly, and then she was leading the way back up to the house.

Derek watched her with intense, unreadable eyes as she swept past him up the porch steps, but didn’t stop her, and it made her grit her teeth. The fact that damaged, suspicious Peter was the one to reach out and scent mark his pack mates properly irritated her to no end, even if it had surprised her, even if it had spooked her just a little bit. She didn’t have time to stew in it though - before she could even look around for the werewolf in question the rest of them all came piling in through the door behind her, Liam practically running her over in his clumsy exuberance. He quelled a bit under her death glare, moved aside to allow her clear access across the open dining room toward the kitchen where Stiles and Scott were piling up all the bits and pieces he’d brought with him.

It bothered her that even in the middle of them, at the center of all the chatter and shoulders brushing, she still felt stranded, like she was drifting.

Grabbing on to Liam’s elbow, she linked her arm through his and practically frog-marched him through the back patio doors, pleased when he submitted and escorted her quietly across the backyard. She may not be able to fix their Alpha problem at this particular moment, but she was going to start enforcing proper hierarchy if it killed them all. Liam was newest, youngest, a puppy at the bottom of the pile, and if he was going to survive being a part of the Beacon Hills pack, someone needed to start whipping him into shape.

As terrible as Derek’s beta training program had been, Scott’s was even worse. 

Shooing the teen off after he deposited her in a lawn chair at the edge of the yard, she pondered the problem with a frown as she watched Scott and Derek and Kira join him, start up a rowdy game of lacrosse that was their Alpha’s version of training. It was little more than exuberant play and wouldn’t keep any of them from being grievously injured by the Rubious - it didn’t bode well for any of them that it had been able to hurt Peter so badly, so easily.

All the more reason for them to bring Jackson and Isaac back to the states.

Lydia had made her peace with her high school sweetheart long ago - it was telling that all her anxiety, all her worry was now for Stiles, for Peter, for the pack that wasn’t quite a pack.

It surprised her when the older werewolf flopped down onto the ground beside her, so much so that it took everything she had not to jump, to keep filing her nails smoothly and evenly. If the third finger of her left hand sported a slightly shorter nail than the others, that would just be between her and Nina, manicurist extraordinaire. It seemed far more important to keep her eyes on her emery board than anything else as she felt the others stilled, the game coming to a hesitating halt as Peter rumbled and huffed at her feet, curling up against her shins. She did risk a glance at Stiles though, who looked up from the werewolf beside her with wide, wary eyes, but then he shrugged and lunged forward into the game, snatching up the lacrosse ball and running off toward the makeshift goal with the rest of the pack yipping on his heels.

She watched them charge off down the field with a clash of emotions in her chest so messy that she couldn’t even begin to pick it apart. If she was being honest with herself she wasn’t sure that she wanted to try. She felt tense and jittery, the barest urge to scream itching at the back of her throat, and she could feel the same coming from Peter, whose shoulders were tight where he leaned back against the side of her chair. Struck by the strange, instinctual desire to crawl to the ground without any regard for her own dignity or feelings and curl up with the older man made her cheeks heat, but the temptation of the warm, potential comfort of contact was too much for her to resist.

Reaching out a hand, she carded her fingers gently through his hair and found herself flooded with relief as he let out a rumbly sigh, incredibly pleased with the flush of calm rightness that eased the ached in her throat.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An apology and a very belated Happy Birthday to darkeneddaisy! Time flies when one is in grad school!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews - I don't express my appreciation nearly as much as I should.

It was a good game.

Now that Stiles saw some real playing time at school he actually put some effort into practice, and the semi-regular running for his life had made him faster, leaner, stronger. Even his hand-eye coordination had improved, making his ball-handling skills that much better. Derek wasn’t great - his game had apparently been baseball - so he teamed with Scott leaving Stiles with Kira, making for an evenly matched scrimmage, which left Liam bouncing around between them, ducking in and out of the goal. It was competitive but not so much that it wasn’t fun, still a little rough and tumble. Lydia merely watched on with silent lips and sharp eyes, while Peter sat still and almost wary at her side until a tackle was made and they all fell in a tangled mass of limbs that had him leaning forward with flashing eyes and bared teeth, a high-pitched whine cut off harshly as he shook his head and sat back again, each time pushing closer and closer against Lydia’s shins.

At one point Stiles took a pretty hard hit, trying to dodge around Liam toward the goal and getting taken hard to the ground for his troubles. He was pretty sure he’d bruised something on the way down, the air driven from his lungs in a hard _whoomp_ , and it took him a minute, lying flat out on his back and gasping to recover. By the time he had enough oxygen in his system to stop the stars swimming before his eyes, Peter was on his feet just a few yards away and outside of the huddle of the rest of them, all ringed around to check on him and tease good naturedly, but staring with an intensity that made him shiver. There was a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue ready to fly, _oh screw you, still human here_ , but before he could even open his mouth Peter’s head snapped to the side, gaze zeroing in on the trees at the edge of the lawn. Breathing deep he visibly scented the air, his head tipped back as a low grumble rolled up out of his chest, and then he was slipping off quietly into the trees, melting away into the shade and disappearing like he’d never been there at all.

“Such a creep,” Stiles muttered, ignoring Scott’s proffered hand and shoving to his feet.

“Yeah,” the young alpha agreed. “He’s being super weird, like with Lydia. Oh and dude! He’s wearing your hoodie, what’s up with that?”

Shit.

Stiles had been hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Apparently Scott wasn’t quite as oblivious as he usually seemed.

“Might as well do some training,” he shrugged blatantly changing the subject and outright avoiding the question. “See if Liam can track him.”

“Hey, good idea!” Scott grinned, but he should’ve thought of it himself. A lacrosse game was all well and good, but Scott’s ideas of training weren’t the ones keeping them all alive every time they faced down the monster of the month. At least it seemed like Derek had had the same idea - the older werewolf had dropped his gear and was talking quietly with their youngest pack member, pointing off toward the woods. When Scott approached he stepped back, fell into the secondary position he’d taken up after giving his alpha spark to save Cora, eyeing the tree line with something almost like concern on his face.

Minutes later Liam went bounding off, Derek, Scott, and Kira all falling in behind, and for a moment Stiles considered following them but this seems too perfect a moment to get Lydia alone.

“Come on,” she said quietly at his side, apparently with the same thought in mind. “Let’s go inside.”

Offering her his arm, and with only a single, cursory glance back over his shoulder, he escorted her into the house and set her up neatly on a barstool at the counter, rounding into the kitchen to scrub up at the sink.

“What happened this morning?” she asked, accepting the cutting board and knife he’d handed her, reaching for one of the onions sitting on the counter. Stiles’ eyes watered horribly whenever there were onions around, so she’d quickly found herself assuming certain tasks whenever she helped him cook. 

“I don’t even know, man,” he muttered distractedly, gazing out the window above the sink, watching the tree line. He seemed anxious, scattered, and that was the only reason Lydia didn’t sniff at being addressed like a bro, that she didn’t push for an answer. Instead she minced her onions, watched as he put a pan on the stove and started bacon frying, preheated the over and rolled out canned pizza dough.

He was mixing cream cheese, Hormel chili, and jalapeños together in a crock pot before he finally responded, dropping the lid on the queso dip and turning to face her with a pale face and wide, dark eyes.

“It’s like he’s two different people,” he said. “Hell, maybe three. You saw him, what he was like the other day. Like a wolf’s brain in a man’s body. Half the time he’s snappy and snarly and instinctual, and then half the time he’s…”

“What?” she asked quietly.

Carefully.

So carefully, because she knew exactly why Stiles was nervy about people suddenly acting like they were someone else, a different personality behind a familiar mask. The idea put a shiver down her own spine - she didn’t blame him.

But this was important, to know what they were dealing with, to fix it, but even more importantly to know what kind of risk they were facing right now, in this moment, before things went back to how they should.

“I don’t know Lydia,” he sighed, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and forking the bacon out to drain on paper towel and adding her pile of onions to the pan, caramelizing them in the grease. It was wrote for him, cooking like this, going through the motions. When the pack got back Derek would probably put hamburgers on the grill, or order pizza, but it was always Stiles who spent his Saturdays turning out appetizers to feed the wolves who so often ignored him. Somehow, even without the gratitude or acknowledgement, the process was calming for him, made him feel better, and so Lydia continually held her tongue, stopped herself from berating him for not standing up for himself.

He wasn’t the one who deserved her ire.

“He’s being… sweet. And god I never thought I would use that word to describe Peter Hale.”

“I certainly didn’t either,” she admitted. “But I was there last night. I have to admit, he was certainly… cuddly. In the car.”

“Right?” Stiles yelped, pointing a spoon at her as though to demand validation of his analysis. “And that’s not even the half of it. I mean, he keeps snuggling with me and sniffing me and _licking_ me! What is that ridiculousness? And it gets worse Lydia, oh, does it get worse!”

Lydia looked up sharply.

It concerned her that there were two kinds of ‘worse’ coming to mind here - the Peter kind of worse, undead, killer Alpha worse, and then this new Peter worse, the cuddly, helpful kind of worse.

“It’s just weird, you know?” he said, layering bacon, onions, and blue cheese onto the dough covering the counter, lifting it carefully onto a pan and slipping it into the over, moving to the refrigerator. He was moving, trying to keep his hands busy. She’d seen this before, his version of keeping panic tamed down, so she slipped from her stool and rounded the counter, taking his hands in hers when he came back with a Tupperware container of homemade cookie dough.

“It is weird,” she said, nodding, agreeing. He needed that, needed to know that what he was seeing and feeling was real. “He sat with me today, leaned against me, scent marked me. Stiles, he practically purred when I ran my fingers through his hair. So let’s break that down ok?”

Taking a huge breath that visibly expanded his chest, filled up his rib cage, Stiles blew it out, squeezed her hands before letting go.

“Ok,” he nodded, taking down sheet pans and lining them up. “Ok. So. Peter Hale. Born werewolf, had a pack for most of his life. Assuming he wasn’t always a murderous psycho, though the jury’s still out on his having always been a manipulative dick.”

Lydia listened, watched his brain whir behind his eyes and his hands moved, scooped out cookie dough onto pans. Watched his process, watched him work through it.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “So what does that mean?”

“He grew up in a pack. A real one, a normal one. He knows the culture, the habits, the… ritual. He hasn’t had that, might be suppressing it. And we’re not exactly a normal pack are we?”

“No.”

“We don’t have a real hierarchy, don’t have those rituals. He hasn’t been getting any of that from us because we don’t _do_ that. The guy’s probably touched starved, confused… Jesus Lyds,” he huffed, shuffling pans and slamming the oven door. “We’re lucky he hasn’t snapped. _Again_.”

Well.

Yes.

“He’s not healing,” he continued. “I don’t know what that thing was that carved him up, but he’s still got the stitches holding him together. I mean it’s better, sure, but not like it should be. Now he’s got broken ribs… and all that’s because of me.”

“It is.”

He hadn’t said it with guilt, didn’t glare at her for her response.

No, it was consternation, annoyance, confusion that made him say it.

She could feel it too.

“He’s been protecting you,” she said.

It was quite possible that they were the only two who had noticed, and that too said a lot about the state of their pack. That and the fact that none of them even checked in with Peter, didn’t see to his injuries that way any decent human being should. They didn’t need to love him, didn’t even really need to like him, but he was their strongest fighter, their best strategical mind, and quite possibly their most valuable resource. Someone as cold and calculating as she could be knew that made him valuable, and at the most basic, functional level that made Peter’s care and condition important.

“Yeah, and the weirdest part of that is that I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose,” Stiles huffed, pulling his flatbread from the oven and setting it aside to cool, cycling in another batch of cookies. “It’s not like, a _planned_ thing. It’s reactive, and I think maybe that’s worse.”

“Because?” she prompted, stepping out of his way.

“ _Because_ ,” he huffed, pulling a bag of meatballs from the freezer, pouring them out onto a pan before going to the fridge for ketchup and grape jelly, movement and focus practically manic as they mimicked the speeding, churning cogs in his brain. “Because that means it’s not a chess move. It’s not his way of trying to get something out of the situation, not something he’s using to manipulate me. It’s some kind of weird instinctive thing we haven’t seen from him before, something _not Peter_. Which means…”

Turning away from the barbecue sauces he was mixing, he leveled her with a glare.

“Which means that something’s _making_ him do it.”

“An unknown variable,” she murmured.

Stiles frowned, nodded, his eyes far away. A shudder rolled over him and he shrugged it away, shook it off before shoving a wooden spoon into her hand.

“Taste this,” he demanded.

Watching him bend over the oven, scoop cookies onto wax paper to cool and stick more into the heat, Lydia tasted delicately, her own mind working the problem slowly, methodically. She had some of her own concerns, some of her own ideas, but something told her that Stiles was going to be the key to this. For whatever reason Peter’s attention was fixated on the young spark- his behavior, his mental state seemed to be reactive to Stiles, and in the middle of all this mess her friend seemed to be the one with the most power over the werewolf, the most control.

Unfortunately she didn’t think that Stiles wanted to hear that.

He would have to eventually, but not now.

“Add some balsamic vinegar,” she said, and the look that passed between them told her he knew what she was doing, and that he was grateful.

**XXX**

Peter came back to himself slowly, walking through the Preserve toward the Hale house.

Well, _toward_ might be putting a prettier bow on it than was deserved.

He was wandering, loping around between the trees calmly, easily, and maybe it was in that general direction. His muscles were warm and loose from exercise, his hair tousled, and the scent of the outdoors clung to him, crisp air and leaves and fall coming on. His feet were filthy, mud spattered the cuffs of his sweats, and his belly felt heavy and hot. He could taste copper behind his teeth, blood, rabbit, and the run, the _hunt_ …

Well.

He felt better.

Peter ran his tongue over his fangs, pressed against his canines before baring them in a wicked grin.

For the last hour he’d hunted, stalked, but so had the pack.

Only one of them had captured their prey.

It had been child’s work really, to avoid them, evade them. Even with Liam’s nose, which even Peter had to admit was damned good for a changed wolf, a fairly new one at that, he’d been able to splash down to the river, muck around a bit in the loam, leap between the rocks on nimble feet, _run_.

 

And Peter?

Peter was fast.

Add to that the fact that he knew the Preserve better than any of them, the fact that one of Peter’s talents was disappearing, and really, they’d had no chance. Oh he’d toyed with them for a while, when he first realized they were tracking them, let them get close and then danced away. Where was the fun in simply ditching them and back-tracking, looping around to follow them at a discreet distance? But Peter’s wolf was easily bored with their loud, stumbling attempts and so he’d slipped quietly away, went and found his pleasure elsewhere in the run and the hunt and the kill.

And he felt better.

Not… _entirely_ himself, but close enough.

There was still something there, something unusual but still achingly familiar, something small and tight in the center of his chest that he didn’t normally feel so strongly. Something that he kept carefully tamped down and locked tightly away, wrapped up in chains of strict control.

_Want_ , for something, something he didn’t want to name or admit to.

And yet his feet carried him closer and closer to the house, up through the patio doors and past the kitchen where the messy remains of a meal lay scattered across the counters and the dining table. He didn’t try to parse out the scents, didn’t try to find Stiles’ underneath the rest of the packs, instead pulling the hood of the boy’s zip-up over his head, down over his eyes as he tucked his palms into the sleeves. The fabric was soft against his skin, snug around his achy torso, and it smelled strongly like him, like _them_.

That was nice.

The noise wasn’t so nice, the canned click-pop-bang of a television shoot-out exploding form the living room as the pack bickered and chattered and cheered. There were so few of them, so few compared to how many this house used to hold, it was remarkable that they could make so much noise. Peter considered slinking away, slinking home - his bike was still here, and it would be the simplest thing to steal Derek’s keys, better yet to hotwire the blue atrocity of an SUV he’d picked up - but something kept him rooted to the spot, a hook in his belly that tugged sharply when he moved for the front door.

Huffing, he gave in to the other, the other pull, the other tug, the tug for the thing he wanted but didn’t want to want.

Giving himself a mental kick in the ass, Peter walked calmly into the living room, taking stock of pack position, the exits, the lines of sight. Crossing the floor, he ignored all those who were ignoring him, walked right up to the edge of the loveseat whose corner Stiles occupied. The boy didn’t speak, just raised an eyebrow as he looked up at Peter with unreadable eyes, waited.

“Move,” he rumbled, his voice hoarse and gruff, and Stiles narrowed his eyes, a flare of annoyance sparking in the air around him.

“I was here first,” he shot back.

A beat of silence passed and Peter shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

Dropping his ass down onto the cushions beside him, Peter spun in one quick, smooth, yet painful movement, throwing his legs up over the arm of the little couch and situating his head comfortably in Stiles’ lap. Pulling the hood down even more firmly over his eyes, he shifted around a bit until his ribs didn’t feel quite so tight, folded his hands over his belly and breathed, did his best to hide a smirk.

If this was the outcome he’d been hoping for, he wasn’t about to admit it.


	20. Chapter 20

Peter woke up one and a half action movies later, his arms curled around his rib cage protectively and his head still pillowed on Stiles’ thigh. The hood covered his eyes, blocked the light and muffled the chattering of the pack around him, and he was warm and comfortable with his face turned toward the spark’s hip, mouth almost pressed against his belly. Stiles had draped an arm lightly across Peter’s upper chest but he didn’t feel constrained or held down, just held close. None of the rest seemed to have noticed that he’d woken up, but he supposed that was just as well - it gave him a minute to collect himself, to assess the situation.

Scott, Kira, and Liam, all puppy-piled on one of the couches, Derek turning pages in an armchair, and across from Stiles Lydia, her heartbeat slow and quiet and steady.

Sleeping.

A yawn rolled up out of him, huge and loud and jaw-cracking, and he felt his fangs drop as he added a little rumble-purr to the sound. He felt Stiles’ fingers twitch against his shoulder and then he withdrew his arm, allowing Peter to roll upright beside him with only a small hiss of pain from his broken ribs.

“Back with us?” he asked with an arched brow, and Peter felt the eyes of the rest of the pack turn to him full of wary curiosity.

Rolling his eyes, he ignored the question, pushed his hood back and scrubbed a hand through his hair, letting out another sharp yawn. Christ he was tired. His eyes flicked over to Lydia, who had indeed fallen asleep, tucked into the corner of the loveseat nearest Stiles, her legs pulled up beneath her and one hand cupping her chin. Something in him curled up warm and tight at the subtle separation between the werewolves and the Banshee, the Spark. He, Stiles, and Lydia had grouped together silently, subconsciously, and a gentle prod found new, tender bonds curving and arching between them, bright and seeking like shining threads of light.

Without conscious thought he got to his feet, stretched long and hard with his hands above his head, his back straight and his chest tight. Unzipping his sweatshirt, Peter shucked it off with a roll of his shoulders, draped it gently over Lydia’s sleeping form - warmth, comfort, scent...

It was more important to him than it had been before, this pack connection, the actions that fostered it between them, and the only way he knew to keep himself from questioning it, from puzzling over it, was to just ignore it, to not think about it at all, only to act on it. To allow himself to do what felt natural and right without berating himself for it. And god it had been so long since that was something he’d allowed himself that he almost didn’t remember what it felt like.

It wasn’t the same, not exactly, not the care-and-be-cared-for that he’d had with Sarah, that he’d had before the fire when he’d still been Talia Hale’s little brother and Derek’s favorite uncle. There was too much between them now for him to ever hope to have that back, too many women, Paige and Kate and Laura, and with the way Derek had turned out Peter wasn’t sure he even wanted that, but it was beginning to seem like now he might have others - Stiles and Lydia and even Cora, who had gone back to South America with Malia but who was far too much like he himself for him to ever hate.

He wasn’t even sure he wanted that much. 

Over the years he’d gotten good at wearing the mask, becoming the charmer that women like Melissa McCall fell for. He knew how to keep the wolf down, how to keep it fat and satiated, lazy if not happy. It had been a long time since his instincts had ridden so close to the surface, since he’d been so driven to chase down prey as he was now. Christ, he hadn’t been this randy since his early twenties, since before he’d been married.

Wandering away from the living room where the sleepy pack had begun to shift and stir, he took the stairs up to the second floor and poked through a few of the bedrooms. He’d been begrudgingly offered one for himself when the house had first been rebuilt but he’d declined, unable to stomach the thought of living in a house that was scrubbed so clean of the memories and warmth he kept waiting to feel whenever he walked through the door. If he ever stayed overnight he just took one of the spare rooms or crashed on the couch, all the easier for him to slip out the door unseen the next morning before the rest of the pack were up. Still, as rarely as he did stay, he was sure he’d left a few articles of clothing somewhere.

It took some searching but eventually he came up with a soft cotton sweater, warm and snug around the ribs which was nice. He actually caught himself curling over, intent on rubbing his cheek against the fabric like a damned cat and breathing in the clean gentle scent of detergent.

Hell if he wasn’t getting maudlin in his old age.

Stalking back down the stairs, he headed for the garage, almost passed right by the living room but found his feet turning him down the hallway without his permission, carrying him right up to Stiles. The spark’s heartbeat jumped but it wasn’t frightened, wasn’t frantic, and even though a part of him hated himself for doing it, he put one hand against the back of the couch and leaned down, grabbed the kid by the back of the neck with his free hand and dragged him forward. Tucking his face into the pale curve of his throat, Peter breathed once, long and deep, then rasped his jaw against the soft skin of Stiles’ neck, leaving his own scent behind.

 _That was nice, better, good, good boy_ …

Letting Stiles go, he straightened up and turned away without looking at his face, half embarrassed by his own display and half anxious about what he might see there. Instead he stepped to the side, leaned over Lydia and brushed her hair back from her face, stroking the curve of her jaw in the process. It was enough of course, more than enough to leave his scent behind on her as well, especially since she’d cuddled up with Stiles’ hoodie in her sleep, so there was nothing that justified his behavior when he dropped a chaste kiss to her forehead.

Once again he could feel the pack’s eyes on him, their shock, surprise, mistrust, but beside him Stiles had stayed calm and quiet and relaxed. No anger tainted the air around him, only a little curiosity, and that was good too because he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t slaughter the entire room if pity had come from this.

Chuffing haughtily, he shook his head, shook himself and turned to leave, more than ready to go home, to the safety and isolation of his own den.

He didn’t look back when Stiles called a quiet goodnight.

**XXX**

Ugh, why had they decided to bring Isaac and Jackson back from Europe again?

It was a tactical decision, he knew that, and logically it made sense, but it still sucked.

The whole pack sans Peter had gone to pick them up from the airport, surprised when there were three werewolves waiting for them instead of two. Isaac had seemingly decided to get engaged while he was off dicking around with Chris Argent. Ripley was a perfect match for him, right down to her shitty attitude and her affinity for scarves. She had black hair streaked with blue but her eyes flashed gold, and apparently that was enough for Scott to welcome her to the pack, sharing a hug with Isaac that lasted way too long and made Stiles want to gag.

Stiles could begrudgingly admit that Jackson was… better. He wasn’t nearly as much of a jerk but he was still pretentious and standoffish, like he couldn’t help a superiority complex. He greeted Lydia calmly - clearly some of the fire had died there but neither appeared too distressed by it - and nodded to Stiles after acknowledging Scott, surprising all of them a little. Apparently whatever pack he’d found overseas was halfway to traditional and had smacked some manners into him.

Lydia somehow managed to get herself a ride in Stiles’ passenger seat on the way back.

They talked.

This was a good thing - three more wolves in the pack, supposedly committed to joining up though there were no immediate plans to pledge them to Scott, two of whom were blood-bound to Derek through the bite. It made their pack bigger, stronger, more able to fight back against every monster and their brother that pranced through town. This was what they wanted.

But it was... _complicated_.

Sure, Jackson, Isaac, and Ripley were all willing to pledge themselves to Scott, to become a full part of the pack as his loyal betas, but just between the two of them, there was still a question as to whether or not Scott was their surest bet. In another place, another pack, he might be the perfect Alpha, his fairness and even temperament suited to leading a family, but right now, in Beacon Hills, they needed a wartime Alpha, and Scott just didn’t fit that bill.

They needed experience, werewolves from an established pack who knew how to keep the peace inside the den and fight the battles outside of it. They needed Derek, who was doing his best but who was getting himself beaten black and blue without his spark to protect him, who was at risk and who could easily become a liability. They needed Peter, who might be manipulative and compromised as hell, but who knew how to get shit done and how to a pack should be conducted.

Peter.

They had talked about him too.

After waking up underneath Stiles’ hoodie and demanding an explanation via text, Lydia had summed things up quickly and neatly by determining how they should approach the situation. For whatever reason Peter was marking them, scenting them, cutting them out from the rest, and if only to make sure that he didn’t isolate himself they would allow the behavior, even encourage it if necessary. It would keep him in the loop, foster that much connection at the very least and stop him from going feral. It might even strengthen the pack as a whole. Lydia would attempt to bring Jackson into the group, sure that she could sway him to the cause, while Isaac and Ripley would be left alone. Isaac’s connection to Scott was too strong, even after all this time, and their current Alpha still held a grudge against the older Hale.

He always would. 

For three days Stiles watched the subtle machinations and maneuverings of their new members, sat next to Derek who sniffed and rolled his eyes but didn’t put a stop to it, and debated whether Liam or Ripley would punch Isaac in the face first for the way he fawned all over Scott’s lap. Kira was too sweet to say anything but Stiles caught her sharpening her Katana more than once, fingering the two throwing stars that represented the tails she’d earned. Lydia worked on Jackson and only ever let Stiles see her boredom and her irritation, a responsibility that quickly became a burden he needed a break from bearing, and for his part Scott just soaked it all up like a sponge, grinning and sunny like everything was puppies and cotton candy.

It wasn’t.

He needed to get out, just for a minute, needed someplace to breathe, and any other time he would’ve gone for a run in the Preserve despite the thunderclouds building overhead, but he wasn’t going to risk running into anyone by chance. If there was any drawback to living in Beacon Hills - hah, like there weren’t a hundred - it was that it was a damned small town and Stiles was one of the most well-known people living there. If he wanted an escape there were only a few places he could go, and that was how he ended up running on the far side of town, past a familiar little tea shop and down busy sidewalks he’d only run a few times before today.

Before he knew it he found himself staring up at Peter’s apartment building, rain soaking his hair and running in rivulets down his chin. He was getting chilled underneath his layers - shorts and sweats, an undershirt and a hoodie - and wondered if there was more to his shivering than the unseasonable late-summer chill. He paced in front of the doors, cursed himself under his breath, then shouldered inside the doors without making a conscious decision to go up. It was easier to bluff his way past the receptionist than it should have been, just like every other time, and rode the elevator up with an old lady whose Pomeranian had an uncomfortable fascination with the cuffs of his jeans. She stopped just short of Peter’s floor - his _floor_ , the dick - and it gave him a minute to second-guess his actions, but the doors closed him in before he could chicken out.

Oh god, why was he here?

Swallowing, Stiles lifted his hand to knock but the door was wrenched open before he could make contact.

“Uh,” he droned, measuring the severity of scowl on Peter’s face, “Can I come in?”

“That depends,” he hedged, looking Stiles up and down and sniffing the air like he was hiding a bomb somewhere on his person. “Did you bring me baked goods?”

Stiles’ heart sank.

“No, I… I guess I could make…”

“Good,” Peter interrupted, turning back into the apartment and leaving the door open behind him. “Stay out of my kitchen.”

“Um, sure.”

Confused and a little offended somehow, Stiles tried to shake off a little bit of the water dripping onto the doormat and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Peter had disappeared into the living room and so he followed, found the werewolf gathering up scattered papers from the coffee table. Coherent Peter then, the one capable of reading and cognizant human thought. That was a good thing, right?

Stiles hesitated on the edge of the room, pulled his hands into his sleeves and rubbed the back of his neck.

“This is ok, right?” he asked, not sure whether the answer mattered or not. “I mean, you said I was welcome…”

“I say a lot of things,” Peter rumbled, and ok, what did _that_ mean. “Books are on the shelf - don’t expect me to entertain you.”

“Yeah, no, that’s…” Stiles muttered, stepping back to allow the older man to pass him. “That’s cool.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter stalked away down the hall toward his bedroom, papers under one arm, leaving Stiles alone. Everything looked pretty much the same save for a laptop open on the couch and a movie playing quietly on the flat screen in the background - some kind of documentary - and somehow he found that settling, reassuring. He could hear thumping and drawers being pulled down the hall, and knowing that Peter was in the apartment, nearby, was reassuring too.

Weird, kinda messed up given it was Peter and he’d only been to the guy’s place a few times, most of them emergencies, but there it was.

Stepping over the bookcase, he scanned the titles, let that sense of calm and security sink deep. It was… nice, letting it all drain away, all the stress from the yapping and the snapping and the tussling of the last few days gone in the sudden, still quiet.

It was like a weight being lifted off his shoulders he hadn’t known he’d been carrying, and it had him pulling a book from the shelf at random, collapsing onto the floor in front of the couch with a huff. Peeling out of his damp hoodie, he dropped it in a crumpled pile beside him and leaned back, cracking the book open on his knees. The first pages were hand-made sketches of multi-purpose amulets and it didn’t take him more than a minute to get sucked right in, the topic one he was understandably interested in.

He didn’t notice that Peter had stepped up beside him until there was a towel being dropped over his shoulders and a cup of coffee placed on the table beside him.

“Thanks,” he said slowly as Peter sat down on the couch behind him, close enough that his shin pressed against Stiles’ arm.

The werewolf ignored him, didn’t even flick him a glance, but there was still a sense of acknowledgement there that Stiles’ hadn’t expected. Scrubbing the towel over his damp hair, he settled more firmly back against the couch, letting himself lean against Peter’s leg as the man lifted his computer onto his lap and turned up the television just a little. The towel was soft, the coffee hot and pale and sweet with cream and sugar, and the standing quiet was nice.

It was a break, a moment outside of the chaos they lived in, outside of their personalities that normally had them snarking at each other’s’ throats and circling suspiciously.

Weird, but…

Nice.

“So what are you doing here anyway?” Peter asked finally, his voice low and deep, rumbling behind him, and whoa, that was… “Wouldn’t you rather be off with my dear nephew and the wonder-alpha?”

“Just… needed a break,” Stiles muttered, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. “Jackson and Isaac and his fiancée are all back, so…”

“Fiancée?”

“Yeah, Ripley. She’s basically a girl Isaac - just what we needed, right?”

Peter made a quiet, contemplative sound.

“Two more betas will make the pack stronger,” he said finally. “Three more…”

“If they stay,” Stiles countered, devil’s advocate just as he’d been with Lydia in the car. “If they pledge to Scott.”

“To the pack, you mean.”

“No, to _Scott_ ,” he snapped. “Isn’t that the problem? Isn’t that what you’ve been saying this whole time, what we’ve had to deal with every time a new baddie comes to town?”

Peter stayed silent and Stiles sighed, his ire gone as soon as it had come.

“I love the guy,” he said, turning a page of his book idly, “But...”

“But,” Peter agreed.

And that was that. The end. The summation of the problem, and it was the shittiest thing that it was coming from him, that he was the one to say it - Scott’s best friend - the guy who’d walked him step by step through this whole werewolf thing.

And Peter, the guy who’d basically started all this, who he’d never thought he could have at his back without wanting a weapon in his hands, was slowly beginning to make him a part of his own little pack, was scenting him and cuddling him and sitting quietly with him, casually and off-handedly giving him everything he needed without seeming to realize it at all. A quiet place and room to think, just enough attention to acknowledge his presence. Maybe it was manipulation, maybe not, but either way it was Peter knowing Stiles better than he knew himself sometimes, and wasn’t that a mess?

“You’d make a good alpha, you know?” he said quietly, before he knew he was going to, before he could stop himself. “This you, not… psycho zombie you.”

Peter had frozen beside him and for a long, pregnant moment he didn’t respond, but then he cleared his throat quietly, pulling away.

“That was a long time ago.”

Fingering the cover of his book, Stiles wondered exactly what he meant but didn’t dare look back.


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles stayed too long.

He stayed too long, and he was too quiet and too still, and at the same time he made far too much noise. He _said_ things that Peter didn't understand, things he shouldn't have said, and it made him feel hot and cold all at once, snarled up his brain. 

_You'd make a good alpha_. 

Well hell.

That was... that was something wasn't it? 

That _meant_ something - to Peter and maybe even to Stiles - but _time_... 

He couldn't stop it moving and he couldn't stop it changing things. He knew now that he could never really be alpha, that he wasn’t the type capable of holding on to that spark without letting it consume him, but that didn't stop him wanting it, would never stop him wanting it. He supposed it was much like being addicted to heroin or cocaine, wanting something so badly that was so bad _for_ him, living a sober lifestyle but never being anything but what he really was – an addict always thinking about their next high.

Hearing Stiles express a belief that he could handle it, that he could actually be _good_ at it... 

It shook him, threw him off his balance, so much so that he couldn't do much more than sit on his couch with his leg pressed against Stiles' side, breathing in the scent of rain that he'd carried with him and taping idly at the keys of his laptop every once in a while just to make it seem like he was doing something. He wasn't – he was mostly lost in hazy, disconnected thought, old memories – but Stiles had seemed content to sit on the floor with a werewolf at his back and page happily through a stack of Peter's old books, bounding up every once in a while for another. The next thing Peter knew three hours had passed and the coffee table and floor were a mess, books cracked and stacked, pages marked here and there with bits of paper torn out of a notebook the kid had magicked up from god-knows-where, and he was badgering Peter about the thing that had clawed him up weeks ago. 

He had mostly muttered and grumbled short half-answers in response, strangely irritated by Stiles' insistance. It didn't matter did it, what the thing was? He'd never found out but it was dead and buried and that was the important part. The wounds on his side had taken a long time to heal but they were almost closed now and didn't even look like they would scar, so that bit had taken care of itself. He'd been ready to snap his teeth when Stiles' stomach started rumbling, and luckily he'd taken the hint quick enough that Peter wasn't going to feed him, sorting his books and notes into a neat little towers and leaving them on the table. In itself that didn't bode so well, indicating that Stiles felt he'd be back sometime soon, but he'd tugged on his hoodie and left without much fuss, so Peter counted himself among the fortunate and refused to see the boy to the door. 

He left a mark though, too much of one. Even the next day there were signs all around the apartment that Stiles had been there – the empty coffee mug in the sink that Peter hadn't bothered to wash, the towel he'd hung over the back of a dining chair after wringing the water from his hair, the strong, permeating scent of Spark and musk and strange contentment. It nearly drove Peter mad, and the only thing that stopped him from shredding the drapes in a fit when he went to shove the windows open to air the place out was the fact that there weren't any baked goods left laying around for him to stuff himself with. That would have been the last straw, and even if he had been craving apple pie and pistachio cookies he'd have gutted himself again before he admitted it to anyone. 

He lived in an odd state of paranoid anxiety for the next several days, irritable and snappish with himself as he waited for the knock at the front door, or for the Spark to just come walking in like he owned the place now that he had a mostly open invitation. A part of him demanded that he rescind that invitation immediately with a few good swipes of his claws to drive the point home, another part demanded he move. His apartment had been a safe haven for some time and knowing that it had now been invaded - by Stiles and Lydia, by Derek, by _Scott_ \- that knowledge made him uneasy. The unusual denning behaviors he'd begun to engage in, even before Stiles' visit, didn't bode well for him either. He'd staged the damn bookcase for god's sake, shelving his best editions at eye-level like prime produce at a farmer's market. 

But it was fine.

This, this was just a phase, biological imperative... midlife crisis. 

He remembered seeing similar things before, in his own uncles and older cousins, his father before the bastard had finally had the decency to die. Of course most of them had just gotten slutty in the worst way, whoring around in all manner of undignified and poorly thought out fashions... 

Maybe he just needed a good lay. 

A night of rough, biting sex to set himself to rights. 

He knew people, had... _acquaintances_ , other werewolves who would be happy to take him up on any offer he chose to make and who wouldn't expect anything more than a cup of coffee in the morning, but the thought of it, the idea of going outside the pack, outside the family... it set something in his muscles to burning, made him tense all over like he was getting ready to fight or flee. 

He supposed that was just punishment for entangling himself into pack again, for setting up his little triangle with Stiles and Lydia, for caring whether or not Scott got himself or Derek or any of them killed by being a soft-hearted idiot idealist. 

He should've known better. 

_Did_ know better, and yet here he was, pushing through the front door of Hale House four hours late for pack night and only a week away from the full moon. 

Late, but still, there, and surprised when Lydia greeted him by placing a hand on his forearm to stop his escape and pressing her cheek lightly to his. It was quick and perfunctory but it was still scent-marking, still more acknowledgment than he'd had in a long time, and then the blonde male he recognized as the lizard boy stepped up behind her, dropped his eyes and ducked his head in deference before holding out a hand for a shake that was just as short and sweet. The formality of it struck Peter hard in the chest, threw him back to another time and another pack and a different set of rules, and he let the man's hand go almost as abruptly as he'd taken it, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head as he walked away.

Strange, when what was right became not right and started to get hazy, watercolor fading out across white paper until it washed away entirely. 

Peter's life was starkly color-coded in reds and blues and golds – he had no use for the muddy greens and purples that bled together in the middle. 

Slinking into the dining room, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it over the back of a chai, took up a seat that set him apart from the rest, left him with good sightlines throughout the open rooms. Lydia and Jackson set up nearby in the small reading nook between the kitchen and the stairwell, closer to him than the rest of the pack and that was strange but settling, even if he was blatantly ignoring them. The rest were sprawled throughout the living room, Kira and Liam sitting side by side on fat, black bean bags playing a video game and throwing less-than-covert glares at the couch along the wall where Isaac was rolling all over Scott's lap like some sort of pathetic puppy. A girl with blue hair and a lip ring sat beside them, her eyes fixed on the phone in her palm as she swatted at Isaac's legs idlely, and Peter assumed she must be the fiance. 

More drama then – a minor powerplay not worth the title. 

Wonderful. 

Rolling his eyes, Peter pulled his cell phone from his own pocket, tapped through a few apps and began sending texts, setting up some of his own arrangements. He had his eye on some more books, on some wiccans he planned to squeeze some information out of, and needed to set up a threat session and an online payment. 

Focused on his own plans, heedless of the ones around him, he didn't know how much time had passed when Derek finally emerged from the back hallway, passing him without a word or a glance to join the rest in the living room. He carried Stiles' scent with him, sharp and acrid with frustration, and it was heavy enough to linger in the air but not a one of the others reacted to it. 

Rumbling quietly, Peter chuffed and showed his teeth as he rose, stalked past them down the hallway toward the war room. Stiles was hunched over the table, back to the door when he slipped inside, his hair sticking out in five directions like he'd been scrubbing his hands through it restlessly. Crossing the floor, making sure he was on the noisier side of silent, Peter stepped in close beside him and curled his fingers around the nape of the Spark's neck and squeezing gently.

His heart didn't skip a beat. 

No flinching, no twitching, nothing. 

Just the continuous tap of a pen on a blank notebook and an exasperated sigh. 

"Hey," he muttered, straightening up and leaning back into Peter's grip in the process. 

"What are you doing?" he asked, letting go as Stiles threw down his pen, shoved back the notebook to drag a stack of books across the table. 

"Consolidation," he answered. "Trying to put together everything we know about the Rubious and everything we still need to know. Three guesses as to which list is longer." 

Arching an eyebrow, Peter surveyed the cluttered table, the books and papers, the sticky notes and crumpled manuscripts. 

"Learn anything new?" 

"Somebody finally went missing," he replied, and the flat, disconnected tone he used took Peter aback, so different from the passionate, empathic voice he'd once had. "Two, three days ago? My dad put out a BOLO, but given who it was..." 

Sliding a paper towards him, Stiles turned away as Peter picked it up, stared at the locked cabinets that lined the walls. It was a missing persons flyer, a picture of a young blonde teenager smiling up at him, all the details listed underneath. There was a silver cross hanging around her neck, a purity ring on her finger, and Peter was smart enough to put the assumptions together. There was something about her – clear skin, good teeth, wholesome grin... 

He'd put money on Stiles' hunch being a good one. 

Tossing the paper back onto the table, he eyed the young man up and down, took in the dejected slump of his shoulders, the weariness evident in his every movement as he reached for another book, picked up his pen and held it over a blank page. 

"Take a break," he said, sounding less like a command than he'd meant it to.

Stiles didn't look up, just shrugged his shoulders as his eyes moved across fading text. 

"In a minute," he mumbled distractedly, and despite the sudden urge to throw the spark over his shoulder and haul him out of there, Peter decided he'd already done more than his share of the work here.

Sniffing haughtily, he turned around and stalked right back out the way he came, leaving the kid to kill himself over his damned research if he wanted to. Nothing said Peter had to sit around and watch. He was halfway to the door when he thought better of leaving, picked up the sounds of a squabble in the living room and one or the other of the wonder-alpha's intrepid betas bitching about the lack of food in the house. Bold-faced inaccuracy but a common one – those lazy bastards would actually starve themselves to death before a one of them would drag their asses up to cook something. They only managed their weekly breakfasts because of Lydia's careful planning and Derek's insistence. 

Not that Peter would really mind if they starved to death, but if they hadn't eaten yet then neither had Stiles. 

Hell, if he'd been back in the war room all morning he probably hadn't even had breakfast. 

At least _that_ was a problem he could solve. 

Forty minutes later, Beacon Pizza was on the doorstep with the Hale House usual – ten meat lover's pizzas for the werewolves and a thin crust, margherita pie for Lydia and Kira to split. More importantly Peter had added a large barbecue Hawaiian to the order - Stiles' favorite - because there was no way he was going to watch the Spark fight for a few slices to himself like he normally did. The whole point was to feed _him_ – the rest were inconsequential. It was Derek's credit card and ordering the full list would be infinitely less of an inconvenience than listening to the complaints and the whining. 

Hardly made up for the swarm when he dropped the stack of boxes on the counter, but it gave him an excuse to snap and snarl, to shoulder his way roughly out of the knot of bodies and sequester himself at the end of the counter, waiting for Stiles to emerge from his isolation. If the smell of hot pizza couldn't drag him away from his work then Peter had done all he could do and didn't care anymore. Staring off through the patio doors he watched the tree tops moving in the wind, listened for Stiles' heartbeat above the cacophony of werewolves snapping and scarfing down pizza, decimating the boxes as they went. 

From the corner of his eye he saw a hand inching toward him and the box he'd brought down to the end of the counter, felt his wolf crouch low inside his chest, waiting. A growl swelled up in his chest, choked down behind sharp teeth, a predator's patience holding him back until he saw the lid of the box start to rise and indignant anger went surging to the fore. 

Isaac yelped, jerked back his hand and drew a badly bleeding wrist in to his chest. Peter snarled around bared teeth, claws still extended and eyes flashing blue, getting to his feet when the fiance puffed up her chest and pulled Isaac behind her. 

_Greedy, bitch-whipped upstart, taking what wasn't his, wasn't right_... 

"What the hell is your problem Peter?" Scott snapped sharply, his eyes flaring red. "You can't just..." 

"Wolves eat by rank you idiot!" Peter snarled, his voice hoarse and harsh and furious. "You've got a pack member back there working his ass off that hasn't been fed yet and he's worth more than half of you. " 

"That doesn't mean you can..." 

"Shut up," he hissed, and Scott actually staggered back a step at the venom being thrown in his face, the rest of the pack still and wary and watchful. Derek was pale and looked half sick, like he knew exactly what Peter was talking about and wanted to roll over and show his belly, a pup caught in the memories of the family he used to have, and it only served to sharpen Peter's ire. 

"What the hell kind of Alpha are you, can't even feed your pack?" he snarled. "Your right hand? What the hell kind of _friend_..." 

"Uncle Peter?" 

The quiet questioning, the familial title he hadn't deserved in years brought Peter up short, made him realize he'd been stalking forward on the wolf he'd bitten so long ago, a child who'd gone silent and nervous and ashamed. Shaking his head, still angry, still bitter, Peter ignored his nephew, ignored Lydia's calming hand on his forearm and forced his way through the knot of werewolves that parted around him like water, slamming the front door behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this month I'm doing a little shameless, unapologetic self-promotion. If you like this story, head on over and check out some of my others - Teen Wolf or Marvel! LOVE YA <3


	22. Chapter 22

Stiles was dragged out of a heavy research fog by the spicy scent of pizza and the snarling, yelping, slamming sounds of a werewolf kerfuffle coming from the vicinity of the kitchen. Sighing with exasperation, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked up, expecting to see Peter across from him, ready to trade an acerbic quip and a roll of the eyes. Instead, to his surprise and momentary confusion, he found himself entirely alone. 

Hadn't he just been... 

Huh. 

Must've been dug in deeper than he'd thought. 

Frowning at the mess of books and papers he'd spread across the research table, he reached out with a hesitant hand, paused, then turned the missing flyer of Alyssa Davis over, picture side down. He didn't think he could look at it anymore, abruptly wished he had taken Peter's advice however long ago it had been given and taken a break. Her disappearance and probable death at the hands of the Rubious was horrible of course, but it also complicated things, tangled them up in his mind. 

For once Scott's black-and-white world had allowed for appropriate action – he'd been willing to kill the thing because it was soulless, didn't think, because it was a monster, an _animal_ , not a person – and yet he'd still gotten them into trouble. Charging in without a plan, unwilling to wait for more information, to have the patience to plot a successful strategy, he'd led them to a fight that ended in both Peter and Derek being seriously hurt and let the Rubious slip away after trouncing the pack like a bunch of untried kids. 

And yet this time... this time he'd kind of been right hadn't he? 

Didn't solve things, didn't make them better or easier, but a little girl was dead because they hadn't quieted the bump in the night quickly enough. 

He shouldn't think like that, he knew. 

Technically it wasn't their job to police the supernatural, but if not them then who else? His dad, and the deputies who already had their hands full with the human element cluttering up the holding cells? Yeah no. Besides, they may not be the Paw Patrol, but it was their job to defend their territory, territory which housed the god damned nemeton. A nemeton, which in turn made it their job to deal with all the death and darkness drawn to it, and they would never be able to really do that without fully claiming Beacon Hills, without establishing their name and their law with teeth and claws and screams and demanding all the respect and hard-won power that the Hale pack had once held, and maybe that was the problem. 

Maybe... 

Shit, maybe they needed to rebuild the Hale pack one more time. 

Chilled through by that thought, all the things it implied, Stiles shook off the shudder that ran down his spine, turned his back on the war room and all the promises of times to come that lived there. It had been Derek's idea and Peter's to install the light tables, the screens and the safes and the hidden weapons' cages, drawn up from old blueprints unearthed from an ancient safety deposit box. If Scott had had his way it would have been another game room, packed with electronic consoles, old arcade games, maybe even a pool table. It had been Hale knowledge, Hale insistence that had known the need for such a room, a place to strategize and plot against their enemies, Hales who had watched it be built with suspicious, attentive eyes. 

God, where any of them would be without Derek now, without Peter... 

Scott would argue that they'd still be human, happy and blissfully ignorant but the idea made Stiles scoff. 

He'd come to the realization long ago that Peter hadn't been the one to start all this. 

It was fate far older than the werewolf's bite, older than his rampage and his madness. 

Even older than his loss. 

This mess would have found them eventually, Peter Hale or no Peter Hale. 

Stiles for one was perfectly pleased to give thanks that the werewolf was on their side. 

Emerging from the hallway with strange and unsettling thoughts still clinging to his heels, he was brought up short at the edge of the room by a scene that was weird enough to confuse even him. The pack was grouped up in little knots; Scott holding a bleeding Isaac's wrist under the kitchen faucet while Ripley pressed in close behind them, Kira and Liam sitting quietly on stools at the bar and tossing out matching, narrow-eyed glares, Lydia and Jackson standing over a pale and shaky-looking Derek, who was being pressed down onto a dining chair by one of their hands on each shoulder. 

Every single one of them was staring at the front door. 

"Woah!" he exclaimed, making more than one of them jump. "Who died?" 

Not exactly tactful given the circumstances, but jeez, what the hell had their tails in a knot? 

"Nothing," Scott muttered distractedly, wrapping a towel around Isaac's wrist, even though the water was already running clear. 

Wonder who finally got fed up and gave that idiot what he deserved. 

Ripley? Liam? 

Smart money was on Kira. 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles strolled over to the counter, rifled through the pizza boxes hoping there was a crust leftover somewhere, casting covert looks at Derek as he went. Jackson had his hand curled tightly around the older wolf's shoulder now and was leaning close, pressing against Derek's side, and shockingly enough Derek seemed to be leaning right back into it, but then, Derek had been Jackson's alpha, the one who'd given him the bite and ultimately saved his life. Perhaps it wasn't so strange, one wolf taking comfort from another who gave it willingly, happily, and damn if it didn't make him nauseas that Jackson Whittemore had his shit together more than all the rest of them combined. Whoever he'd been living with in Britain had done one hell of a job if he was here now, sucking up his pride and filling his place in the hierarchy just as he should. 

Casting Lydia a significant look, he silently begged for an explanation, because it wasn't just a little blood, a little scuffle that had put the haunted, thousand mile stare on Derek's face. Lips pressed thin and white, the Banshee shook her head minutely, flicked a glance at Scott and then at the door. 

What, had the pizza guy insulted Isaac's scarf and gotten snapped at for the trouble? 

Hey, that was cool with Stiles – the jerk deserved a little punishment if he couldn't keep his claws to himself. 

And oh, speaking of pizza... 

"Oh thank god," he joked, secretly about ninety percent serious as he snagged the last box, relieved when the weight of it promised more than he'd expected it to. "I'm starving! I've been back there since this morning – I half thought I'd get out here and there wouldn't be any left." 

Totally thought it. 

Flipping back the lid, he was shocked to find an entire pizza still steaming inside, even more so to see it sprinkled with pineapple. 

"Yes!" he cheered, trying to break the silent spell that threatened to make him even more antsy than he already was. "Barbecue Hawaiian – someone does love me! Who remembered my fav?" 

On the other side of the counter Scott blushed and dropped his eyes, making Stiles arch an eyebrow in confusion. 

"Peter ordered," Lydia said firmly, glaring at their shame-faced Alpha. "Before he left. He thought you might be hungry." 

" _So_ hungry," he garbled around a giant bite, nearly a full slice stuffed into his mouth. 

That was ok – he didn't need any of them analyzing whatever was stuck in his throat right now. Jesus, first with the scent marking and now with the feeding... 

Peter was making him and Lydia pack as easily as if it was all he'd ever done. 

Must've been him that cut Isaac up then, and damn if Stiles wouldn't have paid to see that. 

Folding another slice of pizza in half, he crammed the thing into his mouth, half out of habit and half out of necessity to stop himself from snickering. He wasn't used to having a whole pie to himself – he had to fight for his share just like everyone else. Well, everyone but Lydia, who threatened to pop the eardrums of whoever moved in on her plate, and who defended Kira valiantly even though the Kitsune could be just as ruthless as the wolves. 

Stiles was left to his own wit and stubbornness to feed himself. 

Belly almost full with barbecued chicken and a strange, lingering anxiety, Stiles narrowed his eyes when a whispered conversation dragged his attention away from the silent conversation he was attempting to have with Lydia, only to find Ripley glaring back at him. 

"Let's just _go_ ," she hissed at Isaac under her breath, and the blonde showed his teeth at her. 

"Back off," he warned, and bother werewolves' eyes flashed. 

Yeah, Stiles gave that one six months, if they even made it to the alter in the first place. 

"Let's just get out of the house ok?" Scott asked quietly, looking at both of them but directing the question to Isaac. "You wanted to go out right? Let's go out." 

"I don't want to go to jungle," he sniffed, crossing his arms in a huff. "If you still had the loft we could've had another rave to celebrate." 

"Well we don't have the loft anymore," Stiles heard himself snap, before he even knew he was going to say anything. "We have a home. If you don't like it, feel free to go back to yours." 

Isaac sneered at him and Scott pulled his upset can't-we-all-just-get-along face, but Jackson had looked up at him with something like approval and wasn't that weird. Welcome though, because who the hell did this asshole think he was? Christ, Derek was sitting right there, still looking like he might puke and how had Isaac even heard about the rave anyway? They weren't throwing him a fucking party, the little... 

"I said we'd go out to celebrate and we will," Scott said placatingly, and well, there it was then. "We'll go to Stargazers over in Leedstown – you've never been there right? It's great; the owners are... well, I don't remember, something. But Stiles says they're cool." 

"Yeah," he scowled. "And since Scotty promised you a celebration, he'll even pay the cover charge. Pack rule though – everybody buys their own drink." 

It was maybe a little cruel, but no way was he letting Derek foot the bill for this one after that little display. Scott would just have to dip into his savings if he wanted to treat Lahey, instead of mooching off the younger Hale. 

The young alpha opened his mouth to protest but Lydia beat him to the punch, evidently fed up and determined to bring about the end of this shit show. 

"We'll leave in an hour," she declared, stepping back over to Derek's side and covering Jackson's hand with her own. "Everyone can be ready by then. Derek and I will ride with Stiles. Kira, Jackson would be happy to drive you and Liam." 

Silently, Jackson nodded in agreement, the edges of his mouth softening in what must be his idea of a reassuring look. 

"Scott can take Isaac and Ripley," she concluded cooly. "Dress is semi-formal clubwear; I hoped you packed something appropriate." 

With that parting shot and an elegantly arched brow cocked in the direction of Ripley's lip ring, Lydia turned and pulled Derek up out of his seat, the werewolf blinking rapidly as if coming out of a daze of his own. 

"Come on sweetie, let's get you two dressed." 

Taking an elbow in each hand, she turned to march them both up the stairs toward the room she kept on the second floor, not doubt fully supplied with everything she'd need. Stiles would have laughed if she hadn't called back down to him over her shoulder. 

"You're next!" 

An hour later they had all gathered in the front hallway with less than a minute to spare, Lydia the last to descend after taking it upon herself to style both Derek and Stiles before herself. Jackson she'd left to his own devices, no doubt satisfied in his level of taste and fashion, but she'd long ago taken control of most of the rest of the pack's appearance when they ventured into public together. Today she'd left Scott to flounder and Stiles wondered briefly if she meant to leave him and his long-lost friend at the door, along with the blue-haired fiancee, but he had bigger issues to worry about. 

Twirling the keys to his jeep between his fingers, Stiles shifted uncomfortably on his feet, only a little appeased by the fact that she'd done nearly the same number on Derek as she had on him. He'd been poured into a pair of black skinny jeans that admittedly made his ass look fantastic, a white button down that strained across his shoulders and around his biceps where she'd rolled the sleeves, and a pair of chucks so clean the white practically glowed. Derek too was dressed in jeans – dark-wash, minus the skinny thank god – leather shoes, and v-neck sinful enough that she must've borrowed it from Peter. She'd shaved the older man down to a tame-but-deadly five o'clock shadow, which, paired with the paleness left over from whatever had happened that afternoon, left him looking as young and vulnerable and lost as when Stiles had first met him out in the Preserve. 

Both men had submitted to a good hair-tousling with a handful of volumizing mousse, and had then been forcibly subjected to having their eyes rimmed heavily with black kohl. Released they had been left to stare at themselves in the hallway mirror with something like resigned horror while the Banshee worked her own magic, to great effect. Lending Kira a delicate shade of lipstick, she deemed Liam passable and began shepherding them towards the vehicles. 

As they moved to head out the door Derek was at least allowed to sling on his leather jacket for a little bit of protection, but Stiles was left without, too hesitant of ruining Lydia's work to risk putting on his beat-up canvas jacket. As if sensing his discomfort, Lydia magicked his hoodie out of nowhere and handed it over, the maroon one that Peter had been wearing. Stiles narrowed his eyes in her direction because that sure as hell wasn't semi-formal clubwear, but he wasn't going to reject the offering. Somehow he felt a lot safer slipping into it, feeling it settle on his shoulders and knowing he was cloaked in Peter's scent. 

If he had to play the damsel in distress you could sure as hell bet that of the lot of them he was picking Peter Hale to be his dragon slayer. 

Waiting until everyone had piled into their respective transport and started trundling up the long, bumpy drive out of the Preserve, Stiles turned the jeep over and shifted into gear, swung in line behind Jackson as he maneuvered Lydia's little Prius carefully around the biggest bumps. 

"Are we seriously going to Stargazers like nothing weird just happened?" he asked, afraid he already knew the answer. "Like a girl hasn't disappeared?" 

"Scott isn't thinking about Peter or Alyssa Davis," Lydia sniffed in the passenger seat, her face set in quiet serenity, the calm before the storm. "He wasn't even listening earlier. He's too busy catering to Isaac." 

"Yeah well, Scott's an idiot," he snapped, irritation finally boiling over. "We've decided that. Now what do we do about it?" 

"Send him back to England with the baggage that came along for the ride," Lydia muttered acidly, and that was enough right there for Stiles to know just how angry she was, how serious the situation in her eyes. "He won't contribute much more than another warm body, and when you factor in all the tension he causes he's hardly helping strengthen pack bonds. Liam is already sulking and Kira is pissed." 

"Is this you admitting you were wrong Lyds?" Stiles asked, and it was only calm and polite because it was honest and afraid. "That we shouldn't have brought him back?" 

"It won't matter if Scott won't bring them both in line," she answered, clipped and icy. "Jackson is ready to fall in, but the tension is upsetting him too. He's used to stability. Having you and I and Peter helps, but..." 

"Peter was right." 

Stiles and Lydia both jumped in their seats, Derek all but forgotten in the back, a silent passenger. A glance in the mirror saw the same pale, frightened look on his face as he'd worn earlier at the table, a lost look that reminded Stiles just how young and traumatized the guy was. They all tended to forget that sometimes, and to hear him actually agree with Peter... 

"Uncle Peter was right," he said again, and this time it was nearly a sob. "We're... we're wrong, we're all so... Nothing's right anymore, not like it's supposed to be. And I, I tried, but I messed it up and now we don't..." 

"Derek _listen to me_ ," Lydia commanded, turning round sharply in her seat and reaching back to grab his hands tightly, force him to look her in the eye. 

Stiles nearly pulled over, shaken by Derek's sudden freak-out and halfway to one of his own but kept following resolutely behind Jackson, knuckles white on the wheel. The last thing they needed was someone turning back to figure out why they'd stopped on the shoulder. 

"Are you listening?" She asked again, and this time her voice was gentler, kinder, but no less firm. 

A flicker in his peripheral vision told Stiles that Derek must have nodded, and he was just glad the guy wasn't crying because hell. The two of them still hadn't really sat down and processed Boyd's death the way they probably should've. 

Christ, they all needed therapy. 

"You did _everything_ that you knew how to do to keep us safe," Lydia said quietly. "You were young. You had just lost your _family_. You told me once that you were never meant for this, never raised or taught how to be an Alpha or lead a pack, but you took on that responsibility and did the best you could with what you had. You gave us _everything_ you could to make us understand, to help us come together, but we were too stupid and too scared to listen. Just like you. Young, and scared, and alone, and yes, a little stupid. But you got better. We all got better. You made us closer, got us started on a path to something greater, built us a house and then a home, make us spend time bonding even though sometimes we want to kill each other. Without your help where would we be now, huh? Exactly. You smirk at me but you know it's true. _You_ have made every single one of us better. I think you've even made _Peter_ better."

" _Stiles_ makes Peter better," a gruff, wobbly voice said behind him, and this time Stiles _did_ jerk so hard that he had to correct the wheel. 

Glancing back over his shoulder, he found Derek sitting back, blinking away the brightness in his eyes and getting himself together. Lydia was carefully drying the wetness under her own lashes with a tissue, retrieving her mascara from her purse and executing a quick touch-up while watching him carefully for more of a reaction, but he honestly didn't know which one to give. 

"I don't..." he spluttered, stumbling over the words. "I mean, Peter doesn't... Look, we're just on the same page, ok? That's all. We just... came to an understanding." 

"You really didn't," Derek said flatly, but despite Stiles' heated glare, the werewolf reverted back to his glowery, silent self and didn't say another word.


	23. Chapter 23

Stargazers wasn't your typical night club. Owned and run by three faeries, sisters, it was designed to cater to the supernatural and drew in all kinds of mysticals and creepies. It was kept dim and cool, cavernous on the inside and enchanted on the outside to dissuade any humans from stopping in for a drink. All in all it was rather reminiscent of a cave lair; pale, glowing lights hanging from the ceiling like stalactites, seating set back in small alcoves for privacy while the bar curved round a wide expanse of dance floor. There was a thrum of low-level magic about the place, just enough to touch on the edges of the senses, wards to keep the peace and encourage the partying. 

Not that Peter was there to party. 

No, he'd come to get away, to drink and mingle and ok, maybe to pick a fight if he found one. 

He was pissed, sue him. 

Idiots, all of them. Christ, how they'd survived this long was anyone's guess. If the bad guys hadn't picked them off by now, infighting should've – Lydia and Stiles both were under-appreciated and by all rights should've bucked the system a long time ago, jumped the hierarchy and taken control with screams and fangs and fire. 

It was almost too good to be true to think that that was exactly what they were doing now, finally after all this time. He couldn't trust it. He wanted it too much, and most of the things Peter had wanted ended up getting him into trouble. 

So he left, went looking for a distraction from memories of pack and family and the ghosts of old friends. 

Left the house, left town and came to Stargazers, where he could brush shoulders with things bigger and badder than he was and get his ass kicked if that's what he decided to do. The slashes in his side had fully healed over, leaving behind long, red scars on his pale skin when he'd popped the threads of his stitches with his claws, and his ribs felt pretty good, solid, not so old. There was an itch beneath his skin that put a little stalk in his walk, and once he'd skipped the line and gone sweeping past the bouncer with cockiness and a smirk, he let his eyes flare in the dark. 

The gleaming steel blue was a warning and an invitation – approach at your own risk – and god how he'd hoped someone would. Maybe he'd run a scan along the upper balcony, cruised a few bruisers in an attempt to draw some attention, but something in his scent must have made them think twice about accepting the challenge, something in the way the sharp edges of his teeth showed at the corners of a feral grin. 

He might've pushed if he hadn't gotten caught. 

"You look like trouble with a capital T tonight sweetheart," Afreda purred in his ear, linking their elbows together as Peter turned around, unsurprised that she'd been able to sneak up on him. "Come on, let's get you a drink." 

Rumbling, he allowed the fairy to guide him toward the bar at the back of the club where her sisters, Fira and Iridessa, were serving up cocktails that packed a little extra punch specially designed for each customer. The three faeries weren't what most people would expect, but then, TinkerBell had never been the original. These were creatures of the old world; humanoid, petite, and lovely if you didn't know what to look for, but Peter could see beyond the illusion. Their teeth were sharp, capped with silver, and their veins a little too blue and prominent beneath milky, porcelain skin. No delicate, gossamer wings hung from their shoulders - instead shadows draped their forms, crackling with deadly energy beneath their glamours. 

They were beautiful, even in death. 

"Peter Hale," Fira greeted formally as they approached the bar, Afreda pulling him down onto a stool. Down the line, Iridessa practically threw a drink at a waiting customer and came dancing down toward them, smiling widely as a whisper-thin dress in emerald green floated around her form. 

"Hey doll," she smiled, pushing her sister out of the way. "Why the long face? 

"He needs a drink," Fira answered, putting down the glass she was polishing and reaching down under the bar, while beside him Afreda nodded vehemently. "Any requests?" 

"Just make it strong," he replied. 

The three girls tittered, their laughter like nails on a chalkboard and sending a shiver down his spine. 

"Aw, did Peter have a bad day?" Iridessa cooed, taking down a bottle of vodka and adding a double shot to the glass her sister had sprinkled a pinch of dried wolfsbane into. 

"Bad fucking month." 

"Looking for a fight sweetheart?" Afreda asked, still clinging to his elbow and stroking her hand down his forearm in a falsely soothing motion while her sisters continued to mix his drink. "You know that's not very nice. Not that we wouldn't love the show, but we can't have a bloodbath in here." 

"I'll try to keep it to the parking lot," he said dryly. 

Fira and Iridessa laughed, each touching a hand to the rim of his glass and pushing it across the bar toward him, the liquid inside turning a deep, swirling purple, almost black. Accepting the low-ball, he lifted in salute, sipped as the faeries behind the bar waltzed away, back to the work at hand. The drink was strong, as requested, a little fruity but not too sweet, with a burn that ran cold down the back of his throat all the way down into his belly, and beside him Afreda showed off a shark-toothed grin. 

"Try to have a little fun tonight," she murmured, using a single finger to tip his glass forward, pour the heady liquid across his tongue. "Fighting is only one of the four F's." 

"And as my hostess, what would you suggest?" he asked silkily, the alcohol already working its magic. 

"Mmm, there's an incubus here tonight," she hummed, getting to her feet and circling around behind him, trailing sharp fingernails across his shoulders. "Shall I send him your way?" 

Peter's eyes narrowed, his instincts snapping to attention. 

_Incubus_. 

Interesting 

Wonder if the demon knew anything about a family reunion happening a few towns over... 

"You pimping out your customers now?" he asked, projecting careful interest. 

"Anything for you sweetheart," she winked. "You know you're my favorite werewolf." 

"Damn well better be," he growled, and there was only a spark of real heat in the statement. Who the hell else, his nephew? 

"I'll be in the back," he rumbled, pointing with his glass toward one of the opulent, private booths. "Keep my tab open?" 

"Like I said," Afreda called, dancing backward on bare feet into the crowd. "Anything for you." 

Chuffing, rolling his eyes because all three of the faeries were as unreadable as ever, Peter shook his head and pushed his way through the crowd, a little rougher than was strictly necessary but what the hell. His blood was up, the full moon was only a week away, and whatever Fira and Iridessa had done to his drink was zipping over his nerve endings like lightning. He didn't need to ask to know that one of the booths would open to him when it recognized his body signature, or that Afreda would indeed send the incubus in his direction with the promise of a good feed. She would probably be disappointed if she knew Peter wasn't even going to try to get into the thing's pants. 

Oh well. 

Never let it be said that Peter Hale didn't enjoy disappointing people.

**XXX**

Scott, Isaac, and Ripley disappeared into the crowd as soon as they got inside the club, and Stiles was cool with that. Kira and Liam – not so much apparently – those two huffed and scowled and flounced off to drink and dance together like they weren't even trying to get Scott's attention back, and that was probably a good thing because they were mostly failing miserably. For her part, Lydia rolled her eyes, had a quick word with Jackson that sent him zipping off toward the bar, and clamped a hand around his and Derek's elbows, dragging them into a booth off to the side of the dance floor.

The werewolf had mostly recovered from his uncharacteristic panic in the car, but Stiles still felt off his balance. Derek's cryptic comment about him and Peter, Lydia's knowing looks were making him anxious, and he could feel his Spark crackling in his fingertips, beneath his skin. Sinking into the plush seat of the booth, he heaved a sigh, let go of the tension in his shoulders, the feeling of _wrong_. There wasn't anything else he could do for Alyssa Davis right now and honestly, his brain was fried. Anymore research would have to wait until he'd at least had some sleep, so he figured he might as well be here, keeping an eye on his well-meaning idiot best-friend. 

"Better," Lydia said, and it wasn't smug or snide or pointed, just honest, directed at him and Derek both. 

Glancing at each other, the two men huffed a silent laugh, sank lower into the cushions that threatened to swallow them up. Stargazers was built for the supernaturals, the little-more-than-humans, and it should've had them all on edge given the kind of lives they led, the kinds of things they fought, but instead it was calming, relaxing, and all three of them fell into it a little bit, just taking a few minutes to breath in the ozone until Jackson came back with an armload of drinks. 

"Opened a Hale Pack tab," he said, passing glasses around the table, careful to get the colors right. "Chicks behind the counter laughed – made me want to piss myself." 

"Yeah, they can be a little shrill," Stiles said, wobbling his hand over the table. "We're cool though – we've got a... working relationship." 

"Still," Jackson shrugged, "Feels like they know something we don't." 

"They probably do." 

All four of them froze, stared, then burst into laughter, synchronized and a little hysterical, and a part of it was the magic hanging in the air around them, the auras of the vamps and shifters and demons all around them, but a part of it was just relief too, exhaustion, and a kind of giving up. They led ridiculous lives, the lot of them, and maybe for now it would just be enough that they were alive. So they sat together and they drank, and they talked, and got a little giddy on whatever it was the faeries behind the bar kept feeding them. Eventually Kira and Liam joined them at the table, alternated between drinking and leaving again to dance, and once Scott dragged Isaac and Ripley over for a break but they didn't stay long. Maybe they could feel the strain, didn't care to stew in it, but either way, combined with the wards built into the very walls of the club, it was enough to keep the calm, separate them before tensions got too high. 

Stiles even enjoyed himself a little bit. 

At least until he caught sight of a familiar face across the dance floor, and irrational anger-jealousy threatened to combust him where he sat. 

It shouldn't matter. 

He shouldn't care that Peter Hale was lounging in one of the private booths across the room, legs splayed wide and clawed fingers gripping the hips of a thin, pale, narrow-faced man who straddled his thighs, leaned over him so far that their chests were pressed together as the guy attempted to suck the werewolf's tongue down his throat. 

Holy shit that was hot, and also what the fuck because who even was that guy?! Who the hell gave him permission to mack on Stiles'… 

Woah there, jesus, what the _hell_ just happened? 

Peter wasn't Stiles' anything, and swell of emotion that had just rocked through him had almost been enough to send him to his feet, send him storming across the club to grab that presumptuous little shit and knock him on his ass. 

Only... Peter was doing it for him. 

With one firm shove, Peter sent the guy toppling unceremoniously to the floor, but instead of leaping to his feet in a huff, the man just rose smoothly to his feet, his mouth curling in a salacious smirk. Casting Peter a wink, he disappeared off into the crowd, sending the man a flirty little wave over his shoulder. For his part Peter looked entirely unimpressed, abdominals curling underneath a thin t-shirt as he sat up and reached for his glass, drained it in one go, thick throat on display as his adam's apple bobbed. 

Holy god. 

Plucking his own shirt away from his body, Stiles tried to dispel the flash of heat that went through him, that had his jeans suddenly feeling way too tight and had him staring at his own glass suspiciously. 

What the hell were they feeding him? 

Thankfully, no one at the table seemed to have noticed his preoccupation, or any uncomfortable pheromones he was likely giving off in waves. Shifting in his seat, he decided that the benefits of blackout drunk – namely not remembering anything you did the night before by the next morning – far outweighed the possibility that the faerie sisters who owned Stargazers were drugging him. Gulping down the last of the brilliant, emerald green liquid in his glass, he thanked all the gods he knew that Jackson had gotten his shit together and dropped the douchebag personality when the blonde got up and headed toward the bar for another round. In the time it had taken him to have a mini, unexpected-attraction-induced freak-out, Peter had vanished from the booth and who knew where the guy was lurking. 

Stiles wasn't so sure it was a good idea to run into him right now. 

Three minutes later Jackson was back and Stiles was gulping at his glass before the man even spoke. 

"Peter's here." 

It was a feat in itself that he didn't do a spit-take right there. 

By unspoken consensus, the rest of them didn't reply. Kira and Liam shared a glance and shrugged, slammed their shots and headed back out onto the dance floor, evidently to leave the important talk to the grown-ups. Lydia just sighed. Derek frowned, looked sad for a minute before pulling himself out of it, starting a conversation about a possible addition to the Hale House before leaving for the bathroom ten minutes later. 

Him, he was just done with the whole thing, too tired and confused to even think about it. 

And ok, yeah, maybe a little freaked. 

A little scared. 

He didn't... he didn't _like_ Peter, did he? 

They were barely friends, even if the guy's inner wolf seemed to have taken a shine to Stiles. 

Feeding him and being fed, allowing him into his den, leaving him presents, making nice with his friends... 

Holy shit, was Stiles being _wolf-wooed?!_

Was _that_ what Derek had been talking about?! 

It was too much, too heart-pounding and weird, made too much sense, and that was the worst part of the whole idea. 

So Stiles did what any reasonable human being would do. 

Got shit-faced, black-out drunk.

**XXX**

Of course they would show up here.

Why not? 

Why wouldn't they appear in the only place that Peter was, out of all the places in the damned wide world? 

Christ, all he'd wanted was a little bit of breathing room, a nice buzz and a little bit of brawling, but no. 

He had to set himself up to work, and then suffer the presence of his pseudo-pack and the wonder-wolf on top of it. 

Well, to hell with it, he wasn't going to let them ruin _his_ night. 

So he ignored them. 

Ignored the rumblings of his wolf when he was ignored in return. 

Ignored his instincts, which shivered in their proximity while he coaxed secrets from his little incubus friend with a honeyed tongue. 

The demon was surprisingly loose-lipped with his clan's weaknesses, his breed's habits. The Rubious was bastard-spawn, unliked and unprotected, which Peter had been delighted to learn. The few Lilin-demons who lived in the area, incubus and succubus alike, were decidedly less than pleased with their distant cousin's presence, and the one that had crawled into his lap was more than happy to confirm its presence in Beacon Hills, whisper tantalizing little hints in Peter's ear in a blatant attempt to convince him to go after the thing, to take care of the problem. 

It would have been almost funny if Peter hadn't already planned to kill the thing. The incubus gave him good information but wasn't anywhere near as subtle as he thought he was. Of course, Peter _had_ promised him a little bit of a feed in return for the information, so he tolerated the presumption when the guy curled over his lap and started tongue-fucking his throat. He wasn't above a decent trade when it benefited him, wasn't above selling his body when he was guaranteed the better end of the deal, but the little shit hadn't told him what he really wanted to know, which was how to kill the damned thing.

His was a powerful energy, old werewolf blood that went back centuries, strong from growing up at the roots of the nemeton and stronger still with the lingering traces of alpha spark, resurrection dust. It was understandable then that the incubus got caught up, forgot himself and attempted to take more than was his right, pulling at Peter's energy. 

Maybe he got caught up in it too for half a second, moaned into the kiss as his claws bit into the demon's skin and his hips rolled slow and languid, but then he was pissed and snarling and shoved the little parasite onto the floor without a moment's guilt. 

He might've given him a little credit for not flinching, for not whining or bitching, but he knew that it was his own cockiness, his own confidence rolling around in the thing's gullet that put the smirk on his face, the sway in his hips as he walked away. 

Time was he might've followed. 

He knew from experience that a fighting, biting, wrestling romp through the sheets with an incubus could leave you feeling blissed out and sated, sore in all kinds of good ways. 

But something about the idea rubbed him wrong, made his wolf snap and snarl and sent nausea rolling through the pit of his belly, and anyway, Stiles was watching. 

Couldn't tell, couldn't feel what he felt from this far away, but he was watching, waiting, and Peter's mouth went dry. 

Sucking down the last of his drink, he took the glass and headed toward the bar, praying that he would run into the wonder-alpha and his scarf-wearing sidekick along the way because he didn't have enough good sense in his head right now to bite back an insult. Might even take another swipe at the pair of them if they caught him on the wrong foot, and oh, wouldn't that just be nice? 

But now he was at the bar and Fira was eyeing him with a sharp set to her mouth and he tamped down the glow in his eyes, reigned in his want for blood.

Wouldn't do to piss off the faeries, no, no good, no good at all. 

Best to sit, quiet, good, good boy and wait, wait for his prizes and his praises to come to him. 

He didn't have to wait long. 

Savoring the dark, citrus-wine of the next drink Fira poured him, he felt somewhat detached from himself when the Whittemore boy approached him, watched from outside his body as the kid ducked his head, stood beside Peter and waited to be acknowledged or sent away again. That was good too, right, because this wolf was new and untested even if he belonged to the Banshee, but he was good and gave Peter the deference he deserved so he chuffed and accepted the brief brush of their bodies in greeting, the scent-marking of pack, and then watched with glowing eyes as he returned to the table, to the group. 

He watched. 

Watched their silly alpha and his two new worthless friends on the dance floor, watched the others glare. 

Watched as Derek drank with Jackson and Lydia and Stiles, smiled, even pulled the burr out of his ass long enough to laugh once or twice. 

Watched Stiles drink and resolutely not watch him, until he got up and sauntered onto the dance floor half-drunk to pick up a low-level wicca spell caster with all the ease and charm of a psychopath on the prowl. 

It shouldn't matter. 

He shouldn't care that Stiles was dancing with someone who wasn't worthy of him, someone who didn't matter, who didn't understand the darkness in him and accept it when he needed him to. Shouldn't care that he was pressing in close, dancing like he thought the world was watching, all sin and sex, but maybe he was projecting. He couldn't trust the brain in his head, wasn't sure he _should_ trust the wolf that lived in his heart, and the fucked up bit was that he couldn't help either. 

So he settled, lay still, and he watched. 

"You used to watch Aunt Sarah like that." 

If he hadn't been surprised by Jackson's appearance, Derek's nearly startled him out of his seat. The young beta was looking at him with something painful and vulnerable on his face, and not for the first time Peter wondered if Laura's ghost would always stand between them. 

It was a maudlin thought, one he did his best not to think, but it was hard with the kid actually standing there in front of him, trembling a little like a pup waiting to be snapped at. They didn't talk about Sarah, didn't talk about the past, and maybe that was their mistake, their fatal flaw. He'd liked Derek once upon a time, more like a brother than an uncle, certainly more than he'd liked his own sister Talia, but for a long time now he'd suspected there were too many women between them to ever get back to that. 

The way he stood there waiting said that maybe he had been wrong. 

Peter chuffed, blew out a breath, and he must've been drunker or more messed up tonight than he thought because what he did next nearly rocked his mind. Reaching out a hand, he curled it around the back of Derek's neck, dragged him in close and pressed their foreheads together, breathed his scent in deep. All the tension went out of his nephew's shoulders like his strings had been cut, and he nearly slumped onto the stool that Peter kicked out for him, a peace offering. 

"Never looked at anyone the way I looked at her," he said lightly, draining his glass and sending it skimming down the length of the bar to Iridessa, who caught unerringly without a look. 

Derek's mouth turned in something like a sad sort of smile and for a while they sat silently together, then Fira was standing in front of them and pushing a small glass ash try across the bar, a single, thin cigarillo and a silver lighter. She didn't speak, just turned and walked away, and Peter scowled at her as she left. 

"What is it?" Derek asked, and Peter snorted, reached out with sharp movements a grabbed the hand-rolled cigarette, brought it to his mouth and flicked the wheel of the lighter, listened to the rasp of the stone, forced himself to watch the spark of the flame as he inhaled. 

"Probably not supposed to know," he rumbled, speaking through the smoke as he exhaled. "Like with the alcohol. You don't question the faeries kid." 

Taking another drag, Peter let whatever was in the joint grab on to him, unsettled by the pack's presence, by his raging instincts and sudden obsession with a certain spark, the strange, uncharacteristic conversation he was having with his nephew that actually involved _words_... Shrugging his shoulders, he huffed a deprecating sort of laugh, inhaled and passed the cigarette. Derek eyed it dubiously for a moment before he accepted, took a long, deep drag that he held in his chest before blowing out his nose, and Peter flashed back to the time he caught Derek smoking behind the house when he was thirteen. Emulating his favorite uncle, the kid had gotten a good ass kicking and Peter had quit that very day. 

For the next few minutes the two of them passed the joint back and forth, more comfortable with the silence than anything else and Peter felt the spelled herbs inside start to take an effect, sharpening his senses, honing his attention in on the sounds and smells around him, the thin, tenuous pack bonds that stretched from somewhere deep in his chest toward Lydia and Jackson and Stiles, and now Derek too. They were fragile, quivering, barely there at all, but he could _feel_ them, and he wondered if that wasn't the purpose of what they were smoking in the first place. 

Damned faeries always seemed to know what you needed – drinks, smokes... 

"You _do_ watch him though," Derek said, and Peter barked a laugh, turned on his stool to locate Stiles in the crowd, watch with a sick sort of pride as the Spark smoothly declined another dance from the wicca, detached himself and headed toward the door, ostensibly to grab some air. 

"Wouldn't be so bad," Derek said, taking another drag. "You're better when he's around." 

Peter cocked an eyebrow, watched as his nephew blew a neat smoke ring and followed it with glazed eyes, then shoved to his feet. 

"And that's where this ends," he rumbled, clapping Derek on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. 

"Yeah, we don't do dating advice so well," the younger Hale scoffed, but the bitterness and pain that was customary in his voice wasn't there. "Go after him, make sure he's ok. He's had a lot to drink." 

Feeling a rush of ownership and unbidden concern sweep through his gut, Peter turned and headed for the door, his eyes flaring in the dark of the club. 

"Haven't we all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> **A continuation of my birthday posts! Hope you enjoy - this was crazy fun to write.**  
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> **Review me my luvs!**  
> 


	24. Chapter 24

It was stupid. 

He didn't know if he was doing it to prove something to himself – that he wasn't in love with Peter Hale, or if he was doing it to prove something to the werewolf. 

That he wasn't in love with him. 

Or maybe that if Peter wanted to sulk in the corner with some stranger, to linger at the bar staring like a creeper, well, Stiles wasn't gonna wait for him. 

Snooze you lose, jerk. 

Except... 

Shit, that wasn't what he... 

Ugh! 

Letting go of what little sobriety he's still been clinging to, Stiles bit his lip and cast a sultry look around the crowd that shuffled around the edges of the dance floor, he slid silkily to his feet when his gaze caught on another young man's, nothing special, a bit taller than he was which was nice, and good hard jolt of earthy wiccan magic coming off him. 

It didn't take a thought, hardly any effort at all to entice him onto the dance floor, so easy it wasn't even any fun. He couldn't help but think that it wouldn't have worked on Peter, the innocent, come-hither look, the carefully choreographed retreat. No, he wouldn't be so easy to catch, and seemed all worth all the more for it, which was just one more ridiculous thought he didn't want to think. 

Grabbing on to the wicca, who's name he hadn't bothered to hear, he dragged the man out onto the center of the floor and forced him into a lusty, gyrating dance with all the ease and finesse of a master puppeteer, dangling him on the end of his strings. It was a bit of a power rush, a heady feeling of control swamping his veins as he directed the surge and sway of their bodies, and the heat of the others' eyes on him, of _Peter's_ eyes on him set him alight. He could feel the flare of his Spark, the electric charge of control, his nerves thrumming to the beat of the music, and it was stupid but in that moment his reservations fell away.   
It didn't matter, all the reasons it wouldn't work, or wasn't right, or didn't make sense. 

He'd found something of a kindred spirit in Peter Hale, and it didn't matter if that was because Peter was better or Stiles was worse, if things were different of if he'd just found his balance with everything the same. 

Grabbing the wicca's hips Stiles jerked him in hard so they were pressed chest to chest, his mouth hovering near the man's neck and his eyes finding Peter across the room, where he was sitting side by side with Derek and holding a thin, white cigarette to his mouth, his hands cupped carefully around the flame. 

Dear god... 

Grinning, the man in front of him tugged Stiles a little closer, threaded his fingers into Stiles' hair, clearly under the impression that he was responsible for the flash of heat, Stiles' more... visceral reaction. Fingers gripping hard enough to hurt, jeans suddenly a lot tighter, and it was stupid because _bitch, please._

_Really?_

Tossing the man back with a dismissive turn, an elegant spin on his heel, Stiles strutted away, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea, and hell if he didn't feel like a king walking high out of that place. 

Silly little spell caster – Stiles was so far out of his league they were playing different sports. 

He was a damned _Spark_ , a member of the _Hale_ pack, second _betaMate_? 

Slowing to a stop halfway across the parking lot only feet away from his Jeep, the night air damp and cool and sweet in his lungs, Stiles cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. 

If he was surprised by the concept it was only because he didn't feel surprised at all. 

It made sense – Stiles had position within the pack, dominated the hierarchy, and he was more of a wolf now than a human anyway. He thought like a wolf, reacted like a wolf, his beliefs and values and the way he thought... everything was instinct first, animalistic reaction, fight, flight, and earn your right. 

He could _feel_ his, the position he'd earned, his right to chose the man or woman, wolf or human that deserved his attentions and to hell with the consequences, be damned the complaints of any lesser pack member – and just as suddenly and naturally as it all occurred to him, everything at once that he realized that was exactly what had been happening these past few months. 

He'd _chosen_ Peter because Peter was worthy of him, as strong and smart and manipulative and cold as Stiles could be. 

Peter had earned Stiles' attention and Stiles had given it, caring for him, feeding him, checking on him, and maybe that was why he'd reacted the way he had, all glowing eyes and teeth, animalistic snarls. 

_Wolf-wooing._

Tipping his face up to the purple-black night Stiles let a deep, honest-felt laugh roll up through his body, from his heart, from his bones. 

It was so stupid, so _obvious_... 

"What's funny gorgeous?" 

Stiles felt his lip curl as arms wound around his waist and pulled him back, certain his eyes flashed. Grabbing a wrist tightly, he turned sharply and wrenched the attached arm with him, violently pleased with the pained yelp that resulted but in enough control not to dislocate anything. Throwing the wicca backward hard enough to make him stumble, Stiles spread his feet, took a blatant fighting stance. 

"What the hell?" the man hissed, glaring at Stiles and gripping his arm like he'd snapped it instead of just giving him a little jerk. 

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," Stiles purred, and the guy was stupid enough to only hear the seduction in his tone, stupid enough to miss the threat. 

"Mmm, you're probably right," he hummed, straightening up and proving that his whimpers had been put on, swaggering forward and leading with his hips. "Bet I could make it up to you." 

"Not interested," Stiles snapped, dry and chilly and so so over this guy. 

Like, seriously dude, take a hint. 

Walk away, before somebody gets hurt. 

"You seemed interested enough inside," he sneered, eyes narrowing as his charm flipped off like a switch, drawing himself up as he tried to use the pathetic two inches he had on Stiles to loom over him. 

Oh you poor, poor idiot. 

"That was inside," Stiles sneered. "Take a hike, asshole." 

In the space of a second the wicca's face went death-rage, and really, for somebody who was into peace and mother-earth and the harmony of all peoples, what was _that_ about? 

"So what, you're just a twinky little cocktease?" he snarled, advancing on Stiles with one hard, nasty step, his hands fisting at his sides. 

Oh, Stiles was gonna _enjoy_ this. 

Just, apparently not the way he thought... 

Granted, kicking this presumptuous dick's ass would've made for a delightful five minutes, but seeing Peter suddenly appear beside him with a blood-curdling roar, eyes blazing bright, electric blue and fangs showing long and white, well... 

Could he get a hot damn? 

Anyone? 

Anyone? 

Before Stiles could blink the wicca was being thrown against the side of his Jeep hard enough to rock the sturdy vehicle on its tires, his body landing with a hollow thud that was loud enough to make him flinch. Peter had grabbed the guy by the sides of his jacket, was holding him feet off the ground despite the height difference, fingers clawed and biceps bulging, and Stiles felt his mouth go dry. 

"...little piece of shit," Peter was snarling, nearly under his breath, like he could barely get the words out around the snarls and growls rumbling up out of his chest. The wicca was pale-faced and wide eyed, struggling uselessly in the werewolf's grip as his heels banged against the driver's door. "Worthless, _nothing_. Could end you right now, wouldn't matter, snap your neck, split you open and lick your insides out, watch him do it and watch you scream..." 

"Easy there Peter-wolf," Stiles heard himself say, a strange electricity tickling down his spine because that was seriously intense, that should not... should not be as hot as it was... "Don't want the man to piss himself all over your nice leather shoes." 

Peter didn't respond, didn't look at him, just kept his gaze in a dead-lock with the wicca's, a wolf's gaze, a predator eyeing prey. The man gulped, his fingers flexing around Peter's wrists but the werewolf didn't set him down, and the only sign he'd even heard Stiles at all was that he'd stopped snarling his wicked threats, dropped down to a low, warning rumble and stopped shaking the man, stopped slamming him back against the Jeep in favor of keeping up a steady pressure, pressing him against the steel frame with bone-crushing power. 

"Hey, hey, it's fine, we're good," the man whimpered, licking his lips nervously. "Didn't mean anything, dude's fine. Right? He's good, didn't touch him, didn't know he was taken man." Turning to Stiles with wide eyes, he made a face, a silent plea Stiles wasn't particularly inclined to grant. "Hey _tell him_!" 

Stepping in behind Peter, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off the werewolf, their bodies pressed closely together, Stiles placed a hand on the small of his back, ran the flat of his palm slowly up Peter's spine and curled it over his shoulder, his thumb wrapped around the nape of his neck, giving him a firm squeeze. 

"Think he's learned his lesson?" he asked, and it was a question, not a command of any kind. 

Peter made a short, harsh, chuffing sound in the back of his throat, bared his teeth, but then he was dropping the guy and taking a sharp step back, almost military sharp, standing at hard alert beside him and nearly daring the man to make a move. 

He did, that was for sure, but certainly not the one Peter had to be hoping for. 

He bolted so fast he might've set a land-speed record. 

Together Stiles and Peter stood and watched him go, darting between the cars like the hounds of hell were on his heels, and maybe in his mind they were. 

Smirking, Stiles tightened his grip on the nape of Peter's neck and the werewolf leaned into it subconsciously, keeping up a low, steady rumble somewhere deep in his chest, and very suddenly Stiles wanted to laugh again, because _Jesus_ \- if that didn't just sum them up he didn't know what did. 

Instead he did something he never thought he'd do, something he didn't _think_ about doing now. 

Hauling Peter in by the scruff, he kissed the werewolf square on the mouth, hard and quick and rough. 

Stupid. 

Stupid right, stupid perfect, just stupid, stupid... 

Pulling back he found Peter staring at him shocked and unreadable, holding his gaze until his eyes flicked down to Stiles' mouth again, and then it was heat and want and a whole different kind of rumble, and holy hell, maybe just one more... 

The sound of shattering glass was more than enough to shatter the moment. 

Turning as one, no thought, no hesitation, Peter and Stiles ran for the edge of the lot where the brick and alley trailed away and the wood and wild began to creep in on humanity, where a car horn blared and a scream faded away into the night. There they found the passenger window of an SUV smashed out, a young man leaning heavily against the side, eyes glazed and nearly on his knees as blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, panting a girl's name and staring dazedly off into the dark. Peter skidded to a stop and closed his eyes, breathed in long and deep before snarling and making a lunge for the trees, but Stiles caught him by the elbow before he could get by and jerked him back. 

"Don't you fucking dare, asshole," he snarled, and for a second he thought Peter was going to snap his hand right off his arm but before he could they found themselves surrounded; Derek, Scott, half their pack, the three faeries from the club, all of them dashing up and breaking the spell that had hung heavy all around him since he'd stepped out into the night. 

"Peter Hale!" the one called Fira snarled, and in that moment all three of the faeries dropped their glamours, showing off fiery eyes in deathly-pale faces. "Is this how the Hale pack keeps their territory?" 

Peter snarled right back, stepped forward like to tear out her throat, but Derek jumped between them and the indignant squeak Scott made on the other side of the group stopped a bloodbath right there on the concrete. Gripping her sister's shoulder, Iridessa collected her composure and her human form around her, forcing calm on her more volatile sister, while Afreda, the only sensible one of the three, slashed a hand through the air. 

"You," she snapped, pointing at Scott and then Ripley and Isaac in turn. "Get him inside, and someone get some pressure on his head." 

Good, get the two idiots out of the way and quash the power play before it starts. 

Stiles always knew he liked her best. 

Clearly frightened of the faerie Ripley jumped to, jerking Isaac's scarf off his neck and wadding it up in a ball to press firmly against the bleeding young man's forehead. Scott hesitated, frowning, obviously completely lost, but eventually a stamped foot that sent a shower of sparks skittering across the pavement got him moving. Catching Stiles' eye, Scott sent him a questioning look but Stiles ignored him – he didn't have time to spell out the issues right now. 

There was shit going down, and they needed to move fast. 

Grabbing an arm apiece, Isaac and Scott dragged their victim inside, even as he fought against them weakly, pointing toward the woods and babbling quietly as Ripley and Afreda followed. Derek had managed to calm Fira and was explaining the presence of the Rubious as quickly and succinctly as possible, looking to Peter for confirmation that that was indeed exactly what they were facing now, and _shit_... 

"It followed us," Stiles snarled, showing his teeth and calling everyone's attention. "It fucking followed us!" 

The look Peter sent him then was one he'd never seen on the werewolf's face before and it was almost... pitying, almost an apology, and in that moment that was scarier even than facing down the rage-alpha with a homemade molotov in his hand. 

Fira made a shrill, clicking sort of sound, electricity crackling along the shadows of her wings and sparking to fire at her fingertips, and she made a short, aggressive move in Peter's direction, but before she could get any closer Stiles was there between them because oh _hell no _...__

__" _Back off_ ," Stiles snarled, and this time he knew his eyes flashed, went cold, dead black – the gift left to him by the nogitsune. _ _

__"Stiles."_ _

__Lydia's hand was light on his wrist but it kept him back, kept him from lashing out. The faerie in front of him glared but pulled back as well, cast Peter a measuring glance over his shoulder and looked far too knowing for Stiles' comfort._ _

__"We had an agreement Peter Hale," she hissed. "My sisters and I have upheld our end – it is time for you to uphold yours."_ _

__Behind him Stiles sensed Peter nod, and then Fira was turning sharply on her heel and stalking away, dragging Iridessa with her. What agreement the werewolf had made with the faeries Stiles didn't know, but where just a few short months ago he would have panicked, questioned and demanded and mistrusted, now it didn’t seem to matter. Now..._ _

__"Now what?"_ _

__Derek was looking off into the dark, scanning the tree line before he turned back to them, his eyes counting each of his pack, orienting himself._ _

__"Uncle Peter..."_ _

__"Go get Liam," Peter growled, and once again proving himself markedly improved as a human being, Jackson nodded sharply and darted off, newly-minted good little soldier._ _

__Stiles would have liked to drag him away for a moment – whether to berate him for something or just stand quietly with him he wasn't sure – but the older Hale started pacing in short, harsh lines and looked pissed enough to bite, so Stiles just crossed his arms and hugged himself, stood quietly beside Lydia who was watching him carefully and felt what little buzz he still had going – from the alcohol, from the fight, from the _kiss_ – fade away. _ _

__"Peter!"_ _

__Turning at Jackson's shout, Peter strode over and grabbed Liam by the neck, dragged him the last few yards to the edge of the lot. The youngest member of the pack yelped, looked wild-eyed at Derek for help but he only fell in alongside, and so Liam went where he was hauled, clearly startled, frightened and unsure of Peter's sudden attention._ _

__"The Rubious was here," the older Hale growled, and Liam went even paler, his eyes glowing as he immediately began to search the trees. "Find the scent."_ _

__"What?" he demanded, jerking out of Peter's grip. "I can't do that! There's too much here, I can't even..."_ _

__"Shut up!" Peter barked, grabbing the kid again and jerking him around so they were face to face, the teenager held in place by a hand on either shoulder. "Shut your eyes."_ _

__Licking his lips nervously, Liam glanced at Derek again, checked in and got a firm nod in return. He was reluctant, that much was clear, but he squeezed his eyes shut like he'd been told, like he thought he was about to be hit and didn't want to see it coming._ _

__"Focus on your heartbeat."_ _

__It was quiet, calm, a _nicer_ tone than Peter had ever used, and beside him Stiles could see Derek swallow hard, close his own eyes against what was no doubt a flood of memories. _ _

__"Listen to it," Peter said quietly, his hands gentling around Liam's biceps but still holding on, still grounding him. "Feel it beat inside your chest, slow, steady."_ _

__His voice was low, nearly hypnotic, and Stiles wavered on his feet, lulled by the commands. Liam clearly felt it too, the tension going out of him as his shoulders eased, as his head tipped forward ever so slightly._ _

__"Good, there you go. Now feel for your pack bonds, nice and easy. Derek's here, Lydia's here, Stiles is here... let everything else fall away. Good."_ _

__Stiles felt his pulse slow as Peter let go of Liam, felt his body go loose and the anxiety dull as he circled around behind the younger werewolf, still speaking quietly in his ear._ _

__"Nice deep breath in, hold it in your chest. There's something different there, something not quite right. You can feel it, taste it at the back of your throat."_ _

__Eyes still closed, Liam nodded._ _

__"Find it. Take your time, separate it out. There's a warning to it, makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, makes you want to run. Follow it. Nice and slow."_ _

__Liam's face screwed up, discomfort, fear, and beside him Lydia latched onto Stiles' wrist again, painfully tight this time._ _

__He hadn't realized he'd been making a low, rumbling sound of his own._ _

__"I... I think I got it," Liam said, a whisper, a whimper. "I..."_ _

__"You're all right," Peter said, gruffly reassuring, and then he was gripping the back of the younger werewolf's neck tightly. "Your pack's here, you're fine. Breathe it in, pull it down into your chest. Smell it, taste it. Memorize it. You memorize that, understand it, and you'll never forget it. You know it and you protect your pack."_ _

__"I... I got it. It's... it's cold. It smells like ash, like swamp..."_ _

__Opening eyes that shone glittering gold, Liam turned his gaze on each of them, on Derek and Stiles and Lydia and Jackson and Peter._ _

__"It smells like death."_ _


	25. Chapter 25

They didn't go after it. 

Scott argued, Liam didn't understand, but Peter knew better. 

By the time the pack had rallied and things were under control again, the Rubious and it's prey were long gone, and since the girl who'd been taken was a young vampire without a legal identity (virgin, tofu drinker, got her blood from the Red Cross) there was nothing the human authorities could have done either. 

It was frustrating, painful, especially for Liam who insisted to Peter that he'd well and truly gotten the scent, but the older werewolf was more knowledgeable and experienced than the rest and knew that even though he believed the kid, the trail would be lost somewhere deep in the woods, twisting and turning on itself until it disappeared. 

Well, either that or led them into a trap, and it was that argument that stopped their intrepid Alpha from charging off half-cocked again and getting everyone killed. It took Stiles, Lydia, and Derek all backing him before Scott reluctantly agreed that there was nothing they could do but call it a night and head back to Hale House, but he supposed it was the end result that mattered most, and at least he could end the night with a fair amount of certainty he wouldn't be dead or dying the next morning. 

Neither would Stiles, if he could help it. 

The Spark might not be drunk anymore thanks to the burning power of adrenaline, but there was no way he wasn't still tipsy after all that faerie shit and Peter wasn't taking the chance that his reactions were compromised. 

Didn't really want to think about that actually. 

Still, he sucked it up and snatched the young man's keys once he had them out of his pocket, bullied him into the passenger seat of his own Jeep despite his protests, and if he hovered and got a little too close and breathed him in while he was at it that was his own damned business. 

The ride back to Beacon Hills in the dark was painfully long, made more so by the silence. Stiles didn't speak a word the entire time, not even when he realized that Peter wasn't taking him home or to Hale house with the others, and the older man was ashamed to say that the lack of chatter was actually making him nervous. He didn't realize he was preparing himself for something until he pulled into the parking lot of the one and only all-night-diner their pathetic little town could boast, jumped out of the vehicle and slammed the door behind him. The weight that fell off his shoulders simply by getting gout of the car, that confined, silent space where Stiles' scent hung heavy and sweet in the air was immense, and Peter took the opportunity to tip his face up to the sky, to breathe what little breeze managed to find it's way down from the hills and sweep away the stench of urbanity. 

The stars shone like chips of diamond above him, the moon hanging fat and full. Just days now and it would be full again, mere days until he could shed his silly human skin and his silly human thoughts and worries and be what he was really meant to be, what he loved to be. 

Loved. 

It was a word that took you to task wasn't it, a word that accused, and he hated it sometimes. 

Stupid, because Peter had loved many things in his lifetime – the run and the shift, the moon song he and his pack sang at the end of a successful night's hunt, his wife and unborn children... 

He hadn't thought he'd ever love anything again after what he'd lost, but now he began to wonder if perhaps he hadn't just needed to learn to love in a different way. 

Maybe loving something – _someone_ – just meant acknowledging that your life would be worse off without them in it. 

Chuffing to himself, less comfortable with the touchy feel-goods now that the buzz from Stargazers had left him serious and sober, Peter shouldered his way inside the diner without waiting to see if Stiles was going to follow. 

Anyway, he still had the keys in his pocket, so unless Stiles wanted to walk halfway across town where else was he going to go? 

The diner was too bright for three AM, white-washed walls, white tile floor, white fluorescent lights shining violently overhead. It was the kind of white that felt too sterile, reminded Peter of endless days in hospital rooms but he shirked the discomfort and slid into one of the blue vinyl booths, pleased when Stiles slid in across from him if only because he provided a welcome distraction, even in his silence. 

To be fair he understood it – he was pretty certain Stiles had come to a few uncomfortable conclusions tonight - though he wasn't sure he wanted to know what all those conclusions were. 

Still, he seemed to be taking it a little far, especially when he ignored the pretty little waitress that came sidling up batting her eyelashes at him. Peter probably would've flashed his eyes and snarled at her if Stiles had shown her any attention, but he stayed quiet, still, staring out the window into the dark like she wasn't even there, like Peter wasn't even there. 

It was... disconcerting. 

All this, the mellow citrus of melancholy and the bitterness of distress, all this over one little kiss and it wasn't even Peter's fault. 

He hadn't done it, hadn't initiated no matter how much he'd wanted to. 

Wasn't his fault, he wasn't bad, bad, bad beta, shouldn't have done it, kid was drunk, couldn't consent, he didn't mean it stupid silly wolf... 

Just he was wearing the jacket, the one Peter had worn and then Lydia, and he was warm and safe and pack, and none of the risk and none of the others and still strong, still angry, still powerful, still good, strong, perfect mate... 

Peter didn't realize he was doing it until it was too late, a long, high-pitched, miserable whine leaving his throat before he could choke it down. 

Stiles blinked, finally turned and met his eyes, frowning when Peter refused to blush or drop his gaze. 

Mouth quirking wryly, he made a strange little sound of his own, a huff, an exhausted laugh. 

"Sorry," he said, his voice thick and hoarse as he dragged a hand through his hair, all sex-and-tousled bedhead. "It's just fucking with me you know?" 

He wanted to ask, god did he want to ask because it hadn't been that bad a kiss, too short and too rough and no tongue and he knew they could do better, but a part of him hated himself for obsessing over it because for Christ's sake, he was a grown man! 

Stupid to be so pissy, so defensive, so preoccupied by one short, mediocre... 

Whatever Stiles was about to say, whatever Peter was about to say never got said, because as soon as they both opened their mouths the slinky little waitress reappeared, smiling slyly until Peter grinned right back, hard, aggressive, flashing a little fang. Startled, wide-eyed, she nearly fumbled the dishes onto the table and power-walked away again, darting anxious glances over her shoulder. 

Stiles snorted, rolled his eyes before digging into the huge, dripping, barbecue-bacon-cheeseburger that had been placed in front of him and there was something supremely satisfying about seeing him tear into it, about having provided, at least this much. Surely he couldn't miss the implication, the reversal of all those backward times when he'd come to Peter's door with baked goods... 

For a while they sat in silence but it was a far more comfortable one, just pleasant quiet, Peter watching Stiles dip his curly fries into a vanilla milkshake with an intensity that should've been awkward but that the Spark simply ignored. 

Well, not quite _ignored_ , but he wasn't basking in it either. 

Just... sitting in it, experiencing it, allowing it to happen. 

It made something dark and rich and deep rumble up out of Peter's chest, something pleased, content, calm. 

Horrible, because those were the last of any number of emotions he should be feeling right now, that Stiles was no doubt feeling, but he'd never claimed to be a very good person. 

"Incubi and succubi are most vulnerable when they're feeding." 

Peter blinked, jarred by the sudden statement, the return to purpose. Stiles had his elbows propped up on table, burger held between his hands, and he was staring at it so intently that his forehead had furrowed in a frown. 

"Yes," he agreed, flat, simple, stupidly anxious about what he knew had to come next... eventually. 

"So would it be safe to assume that a Rubious is as well?" 

"You know what they say about assuming," he replied. "But... yes. I think so." 

"Great, so that's the when. How's a little harder, since we know from previous experience that this thing is hard to track. You think Liam can do it?" 

Peter frowned, considered, shrugged. 

"If it was anything else I'd say yes. Kid's got a good nose, and I believed him when he said he'd got the scent tonight." 

"But?" 

"But it's been a slippery bastard so far and I wouldn't put money on it." 

"Agreed." 

A minute passed in silence as Stiles sat back in the booth, scrubbed his fingers on a paper napkin as he surveyed Peter carefully. 

"You were good with him tonight," he said. "Like you are with Cora. Derek, sometimes." 

"It's not the same," Peter argued automatically, defensively, turning away to look out the glass into the night, and it wasn't, wasn't the same. It was pack, almost, pack, but it wasn't family, not quite that much, not quite that right, but so damn close it hurt. He _had_ been an uncle once, even a favorite uncle, knew how to do it... 

"Well. We know we need to catch it when it's feeding, and to do that we need to be able to find and follow it. So..." 

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, seemed to fold in on himself a little bit and Peter felt something in his chest go tight, felt his throat seize up a bit. This was the bit where it could all go wrong, where everything could fall apart. The conclusions Stiles had finally come to tonight were ones that Peter had come to long ago, and he couldn't deny that he'd thought about running some interference. In the end he hadn't, couldn't bring himself to do it, stupid, stupid man, taking chances, gambling, counting on trust that he'd never been given before and this could end it, ruin it, ruin him, ruin _them_... 

"We need bait." 

And well... 

There it was. 

They needed bait, someone to tempt the Rubious, a way to track that victim after they were taken so that the pack could get there in time to take advantage of the distraction. 

Now, how could they _possibly_ tick all of those boxes hmm? 

"Christ, he's damn near perfect isn't he," Stiles snarled to himself, shaking his head and running his eyes around the dine, unwilling or unable to meet Peter's gaze as he gripped his own arms, knuckles turning white. 

Well what could he say to that? 

"Damn near." 

Stiles laughed, a bit of a broken, sobbing sort of sound. 

"He never wanted to be a werewolf you know?" he said, and Peter didn't answer. 

It wasn't his place, not now, and maybe he didn't feel _shame_ for what he'd done so long ago, out of his mind with pain and fear and loss, but he did feel... _something_. 

"He gives up that god damn alpha spark..." Stiles began, "He's never gonna be human again but that's as close as he'll ever get. That's why it's stuck around right?" he demanded. "That's why it's been following us?" 

"Maybe." 

"Maybe, fuck." 

Stiles' voice was hoarse – he nearly choked those last words – but he cleared it viciously and resettled himself at the table, folded his hands deliberately on the sticky formica. 

"We need an alpha," he said, and it was cold and flat and emotionless, determined, and that more than anything made Peter go solid cold. "Real alpha. A... A _Hale_ alpha." 

"Not me," he insisted immediately, not entirely unprepared but still a little bit hurt by the surprise on Stiles' face. "Not me." 

He wanted it. 

God did he still want it. 

But he wasn't built for it, couldn't handle it, not now, not after everything he'd been through and the bone-deep need to right it, to change it. 

That would always stick with him, no matter how deep Kate Argent's body had been buried. 

He knew now, understood the potential for corruption that that power possessed, especially for him. 

He still struggled with that, fought against it, and he always would, even if he'd accepted it. 

The alpha spark had destroyed him once, taken away everything that he was, and Peter wouldn't take that chance again. 

"You know, that right there is the reason I'd watch you take it," Stiles said quietly, and Peter looked up sharply, shocked and confused and his instincts suddenly so jumbled up he didn't know what to think. 

"Derek then," he continued, like that moment of burning eye contact had never happened. "If you were there, if you helped... and me and Lydia..." 

"Stiles..." 

" _Don't_ ," he said sharply, "Don't ask me if I understand. Jesus, if you think I haven't thought this through six ways from Sunday..." 

Sighing, he seemed to collapse against the table, unable to hold himself upright and alert anymore, not now at nearly four in the morning after everything. 

"Scott's a good guy, but he wasn't meant for this. He can't... he can't handle the harder parts of this, the dark shit we can't avoid. He's... too young, and I know how stupid that part sounds but... he never wanted this. Never wanted to _be_ this. How can you... how can you be responsible for a family you never wanted, that you wished you didn't have?" 

Peter was silent. 

He couldn't speak to that, couldn't try, but... 

"If he does this," Peter said, his own voice surprisingly rough, "If he gives the spark back to Derek... it's going to put him at risk Stiles." 

"That's kind of the point," Stiles scoffed. "Derek gets a supercharge that'll keep him from getting killed when he goes running in trying to save everyone, the pack gets an alpha that, with a little help, can actually whip their assess into proper shape and keep them alive, Scott gets as close to really happiness as is feasibly possible, and we set the perfect trap to get rid of the Rubious once and for all." 

Ticking off his fingers, Stiles looked up at Peter and arched an eyebrow. 

"So we're up to what? Killing like, eight birds with one stone and solving _all_ our problems in one go?" 

"You know, I think I'll just not even touch any of that," Peter determined, getting up and pulling his wallet out of his pocket, tossing a couple bills onto the table as Stiles pushed tiredly to his feet. "If it comes from me, even looks like it came from me..." 

"I know," Stiles said as they exited the dineer and headed for the Jeep, something nearly apologetic in his tone. 

It was quiet after that, back to silence even as Peter tossed Stiles the keys and climbed into the passenger seat. The night came in cool and damp and sweet through the open window as they drove toward Peter's apartment complex and he wondered if it could really be this simple, this... emotionless. He didn't understand, wasn't used to this, to the lack of suspicion, accusation. It would be so easy, so normal to be put out on his ass right now, kicked to the curb on some abandoned side-street like a cur nobody wanted... 

But the silence just kept dragging out, the catch-and-rumble of the engine and the hum of the tires on the blacktop, the thick scent of Stiles and Peter's own, heavier, wilder scent clinging to the other man in a way that made his mouth water and want... 

Was bad, bad, bad beta, stupid, but Stiles had kissed _him_ and it wasn't fair, because he had been the one to start all this, feeding him and checking on him and doctoring him up, tempting him for months, even years before that, growing into a man, a _wolf_ that Peter respected... 

Couldn't blame Peter, couldn't blame his wolf, no, wasn't fair, not like that, not when he was being taunted and teased at every turn. He'd shown more control than anyone could expect of him, been good, good, good boy, because damn it, if the kid had just turned out like all the other silly, stupid members of their little disaster pack Peter wouldn't have this issue, but no. 

Had to be strong, brave, smart, wicked clever, clever wolf, bright eyes and cunning and sharp teeth, all the will and the word and the muscle to enforce it, the heart to bring them together and the daring to enforce their law, to protect and claim their territory like it should be... 

"What was the deal?" 

Peter jolted, blinked, hadn't even realized that they'd parked and were idling in front of his building in the dark. 

"The deal, with the faeries," Stiles clarified, and there was something cautious and uncertain in his eyes, it was that more than anything that had him spilling the truth like water from his lips. 

"You needed help," he explained, staring forward through the windshield, his cheeks strangely warm. "Needed allies. The fearies, they were Talia's back before the fire. Friends of the pack, political support... they moved away after the fire, when there was nothing left. I looked them up, few months back, asked them if they'd consider throwing in with the Hale pack one more time." 

Huffing a bitter laugh, Peter unclipped his belt, reached for the door. 

"Promised them stable territory in return though, so I can't promise they'll stick around if we don’t get all this shit sorted soon." 

Seemed as good a note as any to leave on, a good deed done without boasting or gloating, without expectation of gratitude or praise. 

Wasn't a gesture he often made, so he hoped the kid appreciated it. 

Climbing down from the seat he slammed the door shut behind him and rounded the hood, headed up the walk toward his building until Stiles shouted his name, called him back. 

Rumbling irritably, flashing his eyes, aggressive bravado in the face of uncertainty, he stepped up to the driver's side window with a scowl on his face. 

"Just so we're clear," Stiles said firmly, and then he was reaching out and fisting his hand in Peter's t-shirt, dragging him in close and kissing him hard. 

It was over before he could react, before he could reciprocate, before he'd even realized what was happening, and then Stiles was backing out of the lot and taking off down the street and Peter was left standing like an idiot, watching his taillights fade into the night.


End file.
